Everyone assures me that my 15-year-old son and I are locking horns so much these days because he is separating from me; that it is his "job" to separate; and that it is especially scary and painful because we are so tightly bonded. So, to make it easier, he must push me away, which he does by infuriating me.
My boy must be pretty scared and pained, because he's cornered the market on impudence.
On good days, when I'm feeling light and resilient, I turn the other cheek and let his self-obsessed, obnoxious behavior blow past me. I think of him as an orb circling me and tell myself to not get sucked into his gravitational pull. On bad days, when it's all I can do to complete a sentence (let alone remember one), I am pulled into his magnetic field and instantly punctured by his rude indifference, his combative commentary, his flat stare.
At times like these, the wise mother knows not to react but to turn and leave. But at times like these I am not wise: I am horrified at the sullen, surly teenager who has inhabited the body of my once-sweet boy, and I plunge blindly into battle, determined to get him back.
It never works and, in the end, the space between us widens.
But sometimes I'm the one who picks the fight. I call him on the smallest infraction, blowing it all out of proportion. I rouse the warrior teen who's always up for a fight and, without even knowing it, I'm giving him reasons to push me away.
The fear and pain of separation go two ways.
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