Mizmel wants to know if Youngest has a girlfriend.
So do I.
In fact, I have many questions about l’affaire cell phone. Who was the girl? Was she a friend who happens to be a girl or a girl who happens to be, yikes, a girlfriend? What was the "issue"? Why did she feel unable to deal with it face-to-face? Are they still friends? Did they break up?
And while I’m at it, how close were/are they to having sex?
I know that growth is gradual, but sometimes it really doesn’t feel that way. Sometimes, like now, it feels as if a chasm suddenly opens up between myself and my kids. My questions swirl around in that wide open space, knock into each
other repeatedly, echo off the walls. No answers are forthcoming.
Youngest is beginning to insist on his privacy. I know this is developmentally appropriate. I know it is natural. I even know, deeply, it is both necessary and good.
Still, I hate it.
More precisely, I hate the loss of the intricate web of knowing that we built over all those fourteen years. He would point and I would name. He would cry and I would put his feelings into words. There were endless "why"s, an infinite chain of questions. I had all the answers then.
Now, I have all the questions.
I think part of mothering less, but no less than necessary, is knowing when to insist on knowing and when tolerating not-knowing is the job.
If only not-knowing were my strong suit.