I always thought I'd be a great Mom. I love kids, and I was the kind of kid myself who challenged the rules and made enough of my own mistakes to have gathered, I believed, useful insight into the business of growing up. I was prepared. I had no fear.
Then, along came adolescence.
Somehow, within the same three month period, my 12 and 13 year old sons became edgy strangers, shrugging off my hugs and rolling their eyes with every imagined provocation. Their communication skills morphed into a combination of grunting and the rapped lyrics of Ludacris. They were sucked into the hyper-sphere of electronics as the heat of their near-manhood cranked up to tropical levels. They confronted. They withdrew. And I knew...
This was it. The start of the long trek to separation. They were taking their first lurching steps toward independence. And I didn't like it.
Feeling jilted, I circled my sons loosely, trying to decipher their codes and interests, praying for a breakthrough that would bring me back to the days of curling up on a beanbag and reading Tim Green together.