If you weren’t a sixteen year old boy and embarrassed by me, your uncool mother, I would dance in the car like I used to and you’d join me. We’d purposely embarrass ourselves and laugh at the reaction of others.
If you weren’t sixteen you wouldn’t hide in your bedroom. You’d seek me out to share stories and jokes and music with me – like old times.
If you weren’t sixteen I’d compliment you and you’d believe me. You’d hug me and not get antsy when I say ‘I love you.’
If you weren’t sixteen you’d admit that you get scared sometimes and would look to me for comfort. You’d ask my opinion and not have to pretend that my words of wisdom mean nothing.
If you weren’t sixteen, you wouldn’t wear a perma-scowl to appear less sensitive than you are. You’d allow yourself to feel.
But you are sixteen, like I once was. I know what’s underneath that tough exterior of yours – the same generous heart, humorous spirit, and killer personality that I fell in love with so many years ago. When you’re not sixteen anymore, these hidden gems will resurface. People will marvel at the man you’ve become. “Who knew?” they’ll remark. A knowing smile will cross my lips, betraying my secret. “I knew.” I will say. A mother always knows.
Chaos & Clarity 