My son is a punk

My son is a punk

         I am standing on the front porch, watching my nineteen year old son; my firstborn. He is the consummate teenager; his dark brown hair, gelled to the point of almost cracking, also sports blonde highlights. The khaki cargo pants he is wearing are so baggy I can’t fathom how he walks without falling down. At the moment, he happens to have on a shirt and tie with those baggy khakis, having just come from a job interview. See, he’s quit two jobs since having graduated last year. Two jobs that would have been wonderful careers for him, had he been more interested in a career than hanging out with his friends and their fast cars. No college for this kid, he’s told me time and time again. He hated school, so why would he want to go to college? He knows everything already.

         A tiny flash of light catches my eye as the sun glints off of the…what do you call that thing? The piece of jewelry that he’s got embedded in his eyebrow? I’m not sure what you call it, I just know my heart sinks every time I see it. Or was that flash of light from his earrings? (sigh) Actually, the earrings don’t look that bad, I can live with that. I think.

         His car sits in the driveway behind him. It’s one of those small, really fast cars. A Honda something or other. You know, one of those cars with the coffee-can looking muffler that sounds like a mad hornet coming down the road. I cringe every time he pulls into the driveway. He seems to know how much I dislike it and revels in gunning the motor as he comes down the street, just to irritate me. And of course, you can hear the music long before you see the car. Let me clarify that. You can hear the bass in the music, long before you see the car.

         His Father and I divorced some eight or nine years ago. We still stay in touch, if for no other reason than to agree on how much our eldest son has disappointed us so far. My ex-husband tends to be more willing to help our son than I. For one, we disagree over the amount of financial support he requires; I myself leaning toward the "tough love" side. I would give him the world if I thought it was what he truly needed. I've decided though, cold as it may seem, that I would rather watch him struggle and eventually reap the sweet reward of a lesson learned the hard way, than to supply him his every need, and cripple him for life.

         There is another son, a seventeen year old that is a Mother’s dream. Polite and respectful, he wears his pants where they’re meant to be worn, makes good grades, does his chores and babysits his three year old little sister, my daughter from my second marriage, without complaint. He wants to be a doctor. The two boys are worlds apart and yet similar. They say they hate each other, but whenever they're together, they seem as best friends. Sometimes, I wish the younger would let go a little like the older has. I believe he has seen me worry about his older brother far too much, and puts pressure on himself to be better.

         I watch as my first born lifts his three year old sister high into the air, her silhouette darkened by a sparkling, Carolina blue sky above her. Over and over again she soars, blond hair flying, until finally collapsing in a fit of giggles. It is difficult to determine which is laughing harder, my eldest or my youngest. He chases her around and around the front yard, never tiring and never telling her he is too busy to play with her, as I am guilty of doing far too much. She adores him. When he pulls into the driveway, she flies out the door calling his name over and over, running to him with arms open wide. She sees not the nineteen year old disappointment; she sees her big brother, strong and invincible. Does she see something in him that I have not? He delights in getting down on the floor and playing with her endless stream of toys; the barn set with the animals that make noises when you put them in their pen; the collection of magnetic letters she has, endlessly spelling out words for her; and her newest outdoor toy; an inflatable moonwalk that he is currently bouncing her up and down in. He’s laughing as hard as she.

         My firstborn. His heart is even bigger than his size 13 feet. The love that I feel for him is indescribable. It makes my heart ache and I have to remind myself over and over that I too, was once nineteen. I too, once thought I knew everything. Without warning, I catch a glimpse of the man he is to become. A swift and strong wave of emotion; it catches me off-guard. He’ll be a great father, I think to myself. Tall and strong, he now towers over me. I remember the first time I realized I could no longer see the top of his head without his stooping down. He is a beautiful man-child, still learning the ways of the world, albeit the hard way. I remember the moment he was born; the hopes and dreams I had for him. And I realize, my first born has grown up. Teetering on the edge of manhood, he has hopes and dreams of his own. Maybe it is time for me to let go of who I had hoped he would be, and love him for who he has become.

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