“I’m going to bed,” he says, and my husband and I exchange glances. We know that “going to bed” is code word for I’m-going-into-my-room-and-shutting-the-door-and-staying-up-for-hours-without-you. I hear the door close and even though my son is right upstairs, I miss him. And I know that he’s going off to college in two years and I’m going to miss him even more.
I don’t know why I’m so surprised he’s independent. We wanted him to be that way. My parents had raised my sister and me to be dependent on them, to stay close to home, to reveal all our secrets. I, of course, balked and flew out on my own at 17, lived states away, and kept my thoughts locked up like a safe. Even now, my mom still scolds me for being “too independent for my own good” but I always considered that a plus.
Until I had a son.
Right from the start, we encouraged our son to be fearlessly self-reliant, to know the joys of spending time alone. We loved it that he had no separation anxiety when he strolled into preschool, that he felt secure enough to be able to stay at a friend’s house for hours without caring that we weren’t there, and we were thrilled when he came back home to excitedly tell us about his day. But then he entered high school and everything shifted. Nowadays, he’s only sort of here, because even when he is, he’s making plans to be with his friends, his music, his increasingly private life.
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