Today, this very afternoon, not more than an hour ago, my fifteen year old son, a person who is, daily, trying to define himself, wanting to be someone who makes a difference, in life, and possibly beyond, a young boy wanting to be good while at the same time working so hard at not being a negative distraction, thanked me, his one and only mom, for instilling in him the feeling of being cared for, and cared about.
“I want to thank you, Mom, for listening to me, for letting me be myself, and for letting me have my say. Thank you for making me feel valued.”
Oh, yes he did. He said that to me. My complicated, yet very loving, six foot tall, basketball playing teenage kid.
He thanked me for letting him thrive, grow, and develop into his own person. And then he reached his hand out to me, a sort of gesture. “Seriously, thanks.”
All I could do was smile.
And continue to listen, like I always do, and watch him as he seemed to be digging deep within himself trying to fully understand who he, himself, is, and what kind of person he wants to be. Now. And when he grows up.
He’s only a sophomore, a boy in high school, but the way he feels and thinks is way beyond his years, and I don’t let any of those feeling slide pass me. No way. No how. Instead, I grab hold, whenever he stands, or sits, before me, whenever he says, “Mom, can we talk.”