Mom-son -1- -

For me, it happened on a Tuesday afternoon.

A fist bump.

This is Part 1 of what I’m calling our “Mom-Son” series. Not because I have it all figured out—heaven knows I don’t—but because I need to write my way through this strange, beautiful, heartbreaking transition. Mom-Son -1-

It started small. He closes his bedroom door now. He used to leave it open a crack, like a little question mark. Now it’s a period. When I ask about his day, “fine” is a full sentence. When I try to kiss his forehead goodbye at school drop-off, he ducks—just slightly—and gives me a fist bump instead.

I will not make him feel guilty for growing up. I will not cry where he can see me (okay, maybe just once). And I will learn to love the fist bump, even while I miss the sticky, small hand in mine. For me, it happened on a Tuesday afternoon

For ten years, I was his sun. He orbited around me: my schedule, my voice, my hug at the end of a bad day. Now, slowly, he is building his own gravity.

My son, who used to hold my hand crossing any parking lot as if letting go meant falling into a black hole, pulled his hand away. Not rudely. Not even consciously, I think. He just… dropped it. He walked three full steps ahead of me toward the library door, his shoulders squared, his chin up. Not because I have it all figured out—heaven

Stay tuned for Part 2: The First Inside Joke I’m Not a Part Of.