Yesterday I posted a memory of a note a wrote to my mother saying she was the meanest mother in the world and I hated her. That memory reminded me of my relationship with my own son. He is my oldest child, and when he was a teenager, it was a difficult time for both of us. He was always kind and loving, but as a teen his rebellious streak held precedence for several years. It seemed that nothing I did pleased him. He never did suffer fools gladly, and his attitude toward some of his teachers, got him into trouble at school too often for his parents to bear. I wrote this poem to him when he turned 17.
My beloved son, my first born.
Eyes like flint in your handsome closed face,
I am not your enemy,
You were longed for, waited for, cared for,
Do I expect too much?
Shoulders, elbows—sharp angles,
I see your back more often than I see your face,
Rough words of one syllable.
The big red reclining chair
(I tried to slipcover one summer)
You could sit beside me, in the curve of my arm,
No angles then.
Giggling at Grover; Solemn with King Friday.
When did I stop
Mark is now a husband and a great father to a teen age daughter and a young son. Just keep loving your children and believing in them.