is, at times, not a pretty picture. It’s not always taffy-pulling, shiny sweet or Silly Putty fun. Think Elastigirl from The Incredibles, but alas without the super powers, I splinter and ultimately snap.
I’m a late bloomer and an older mom, so I find myself launching my memoir (about becoming a mother) and our teenage sons into the world at the same time. The irony is plentiful.
I can launch Stretch Marks according to a schedule my publisher and I decide on. Not so with my sons, whose current stage of loitering has me in a state of panic.
I assumed that at this age, they would be tugging at me much less. I envisioned them out in the world a whole lot more while I relished the quiet my work demands. Instead our young men seem to be burrowing, marking their territory with intentions of squatting.
I think of my mother who raised eleven and told me point-blank, during one of her visits that it didn’t get easier as the kids got older. She’d stroke my hand with hers and reminded me half of my siblings had returned several times in their twenties and thirties.
But, I was different, remember? My sons would be different as well.
I regret not asking her if she, like me, panicked?