Nighttime

September 1, 2012

E. likes talking late at night. (By “late” I mean anything after 8:30, the middle of the night to my body, which jolts awake daily to a series of alarms that begin at 5:40). A once-chubby, cuddly chatterbox, E. is a 16-year-old of few words. In the past few years, his easy hugs and kisses have morphed into a surly, cool remove.  Most of the time he lives in his room, outstretched on his bed, under a sheet, his laptop perched on his legs. But as evening wears on, he begins to emerge, making repeated trips downstairs to get ice cream and other snacks, use the bathroom (even though there’s one upstairs) and share silly videos on YouTube. These are his signs. He wants to connect.

His need for connection usually kicks in as I’m decompressing from the workday: when the conveyer belt between my brain and mouth has shut down and my eyelids feel like flaps of sandpaper each time I blink; when every sound becomes background noise and smiling or nodding requires a singular, dedicated heave; when all I can manage is reading, sipping chamomile tea and folding into bed.

Invariably, this is when he plops down next to me with a mountain of ice cream and shoots a fusilade of questions and ideas before stopping to ask, “You’re too tired to talk, right?”

Had R. not just moved out, I probably would have dodged E's latest attempt at nighttime conversation. But he wanted to talk about his future and it dawned on me that in two years he won’t be crashing in as I unwind because he too will be gone. I was not about to jeopardize this chance to get as close as he would allow, to peek inside his dreams.

So, I rallied and we talked about his leaving home, graduating from high school and going to college. He said he can’t wait to leave. He said he’s ready now.

I get it, despite the ache it adds to my heart. His sister has launched. He wants to take flight too. I was similarly ready at 16; itchy to start my own life. Still, I had to fight the urge to list every reason why he should stay home longer. I forced myself to encourage him. I feigned excitement. For the moment, this was all he needed.

As he scraped a dime-size puddle of melted ice cream from the bottom of his bowl, he digested my words. Then he got up, put his bowl in the sink and announced that senior year, with all its nostalgia and revelry, would be too precious to miss.

Precious, indeed.