To Be or Not To Be A sMother

Relatively free child, Vienna, Austria

It is my birthday in two days, so I thought that my middle son, newly 14, would tolerate a slight display of affection.

For the last year or so, our relationship, once affectionate and communication rich, has mostly consisted of long periods of grunting and gaze avoidance (him), restraint (me), and interspersed and seemingly unpredictable islands of opening up (him)...sparse, like the hair on a balding man's head.

So, he is at the door, ready for school.

I tell him perkily (and yes, restrospectively, with perfect hindsight...WHAT was I thinking????): "I know you're at an age where talking to me is unpleasant; I still want you to know that I love you!".  Long pause....and then the indignant response.
"I know mom, but I ...I...I...just don't want to be smothered!"
At this point, the incredulous scientist in me awakes because surely, I know what smothering is and that is not what I think that I, and my admirable restraint, have even been remotely doing. "I...am smothering you?"

The second response, a cry from the heart: "Totally!! Why do you think they call it smother with mother in it?".

I turn away and ask if I can blog about our exchange? Sure, he laughs and then climbs upstairs and gives me a big smothering hug.

Till Later,

Anne