34. Born Dancing

My son doesn’t want to eat dinner with us anymore. In fact, I don’t think he even wants to live with us anymore. 

I am resentful, I’ll fully admit. For many years I’ve had a picture in my head of what life with a teenager would look like. Others had told me before that they “never see” their teenagers, but I assumed this didn’t actually mean never. I assumed my teenager would be in and out of the house, running to sports and activities at the school. He’d eat a quick dinner with us, regaling us with stories of his day at school; how he did on his math test, how he feels about climate change, what his plans are for the summer and beyond. I assumed we would be attending endless soccer games or band concerts or school plays, or hosting pizza/dance parties and gatherings of the French club. But the reality is very different than what was in my head. 

Instead we have a somewhat sneaky and often belligerent boy who likes to party, gorge himself on junk food, play video games until the wee hours, and just “hang out” with his friends. Sometimes he comes home at night, but sometimes he doesn’t. He would rather never be at home with us, never forced to eat a meal at home or follow our rules. In fact, sometimes, he sabotages himself just to do the opposite. Our insistence drives him away faster than anything. He’s perfectly capable of getting straight As in school, but just isn’t interested. He’s unbelievably intelligent, but lacks the motivation to use his intelligence. He’s physically perfect, an extremely handsome young man, but is very self-conscious. He has the body of an athlete, but is uninterested in sports. He lacks ambition, chutzpah, grit. He sometimes even seems to lack a moral compass. He drifts from girlfriend to girlfriend; more often than not, he gets dumped—maybe from the reasons above? He’s emotionally as fragile as a crystal vase, covered with a thick layer of nonchalance.

But, deep in his heart, he is a kind, gentle, and generous soul. He has a loving nature when he’s not angry or on the defensive. He’s an animal-lover. He’s creative and witty. He loves his friends and is loyal to them to a fault. He’s polite to other adults.

But his teenage years will not be how I pictured them. But if I think that’s a problem, it says more about me than it does about him.

It’s finally beginning to dawn on me that if I spend all my time butting heads with him, trying to force him into a mold of my own making, I will not be able to experience the joy of who he actually is. 

When my son was a newborn, fresh from the hospital, I was determined to do everything perfectly. I had read all the baby manuals that said that babies like to be swaddled. I studied the method, laid out the blanket carefully, and set my newborn peanut on the blanket on a diagonal. I followed the steps to wrap him up in a tiny burrito-shaped package. It was March, after all, and I was terrified that he’d get cold. Finally I managed to get him swaddled, then I laid him in his bassinet. Two minutes later, he had freed himself from the blankets. Frustrated that I had not mastered the technique, I tried again, this time with a slightly bigger blanket. And again, he wriggled out within minutes. I finally had to accept the fact that this baby was different than most. This baby did not like to be confined.

So why have I not learned that lesson in the 16.75 years he’s been alive? 

This baby does not like to be confined.

When I was pregnant with him, a wonderful woman I know gave me a book entitled “Born Dancing: How Intuitive Parents Understand Their Baby's Unspoken Language and Natural Rhythms” by Evelyn B. Thoman. Its main message was that parenting should be about discovering your child’s nature and adjusting your parenting to that child, rather than to have a fixed notion of parenting and discipline. I adored that book, and even though it’s out of print, I hunted down several copies to give to any friends who were expecting. It had spoken to me in a way that no other parenting book has, before or since. But I think I didn’t really practice what the book teaches. I think that my own fairly austere and rigid upbringing, paired with my own rule-following, type A personality, prevented me from fully appreciating how to “dance” with my son. I can see now how I’ve wasted a lot of time, needlessly experiencing pain and worry and general unhappiness, trying to fit my son into something he was not, and berating myself for what I saw as my failure as a parent; simultaneously I was completely missing seeing what he was. And I am filled with regret.

No, he’s not an athlete. No, he’s not a group “joiner” or a team player. But he is a leader. I’ve been told by his teachers that he gets people in a group organized and moving forward with projects or activities in class.

No, he’s not a straight-A student. But his writing is insightful and creative. He’s an artist, he’s reflective. He’s a thinker. Sometimes to the point of over-thinking and overwhelm, but someday he’ll learn to balance that.

No, he’s not super-motivated for school or sports or a career. But when he was offered the job of a camp counselor—this past summer taking care of a cabin full of 11-year-olds—he couldn’t wait to get started. He remained enthusiastic throughout the six week-long camp sessions despite grueling hours, hot and humid weather, very brief breaks, and little boys who got homesick and wet the bed and fought with each other. And now that they want him to work again this summer, he is thrilled. And he will return with the same level of dedication and energy. And his campers will adore him and look up to him in the same way he looked up to his counselors just a few short years ago.

No, he doesn’t want to eat meals with us, or travel with us, or spend any time at all with us, it seems. But he still wants hugs from Mom and Dad from time to time—and he’s a really good hugger. He still wants us to be proud of him for managing his own life, no matter how sloppy we might think it is. He tries harder than we realize, having to overcome his own fears and anxieties and depression and boredom. He is learning the dance—sometimes graceful, more often awkward—from dependence to autonomy. He’s separating from us, and it is just as painful for him as it is for us.

And to help him through I need to shift my worry to gratitude. Gratitude for the gift of a beautiful, loving son. Gratitude for who he actually is, rather than who I think he should be, or how our relationship should look. Gratitude is the dance I should be dancing. I need to let go of the illusion of control, the idea that I must shape him and his future. I need to let go of my fear of being a failure as a parent. Because, if I remove the lens of my own anxieties and insecurities, my ridiculous expectations based on my own shortcomings, then I can clearly see him. Him, dancing.