During the pandemic, my children, four tweens and teens, became my best friends: my walking companions and sous chefs, my audience for terrible jokes, and my dance partners while cleaning the kitchen. My kids were my “party” on New Year's Eve and my Saturday night movie buddies. Our family’s entire social life revolved around each other, morning, noon and night. Cuddled under mountains of blankets, snacking on popcorn and chocolate, we cocooned.
And then one night last winter, my youngest kid, 11 years old, said he was going to bed. I started to drag myself off the couch to tuck him in, and he said: “No, Mom. I want to say goodnight to you here. I don’t want you to tuck me in.” A knife through the heart would have felt less painful than those three short sentences. My baby, who usually gave me goodnight kisses while snuggled in his bed, offered instead a perfunctory peck to my forehead as he scurried upstairs.
That was only the first blow. A few weeks later, on a Saturday afternoon, I asked my 13-year-old daughter what movie we were going to watch that night. She looked at me with pity in her eyes and said: “I’m really sorry, Mom, but I want to FaceTime my friends instead of watching a movie with you.” She offered a consolatory hug before gleefully sprinting up to her room.
The hits kept coming as my kids’ lives started to normalize, moments of them choosing friends over family, opting for the outside world over our bubble. Don’t get me wrong – I was thrilled for them to be out in the world again. Deeply grateful that they were finally able to do all the things kids their age should do. Except inside of me, it also hurt. Where were all my friends (kids) going? Intellectually, I knew it is normal for adolescents to individuate from their parents and push us away, but knowing that is different from feeling it. I felt like my kids were dumping me. |
