Growing pains

By ALICE GRAVES
Published March 27, 2007

Two years ago on Mother's Day, my teenage son gave me an abstract he painted. It was not meant to be beautiful; in fact, he made it as ugly as he could, with dissonant colors, globs of a substance that resembles dried up bile, and a hole burned through the middle.

My son considered Mother's Day a phony holiday created by greeting card companies and greedy florists.

But he knew a gift would make me happy. Looking at it now makes me wistful.

My son, an only child, is now spending a year in Argentina as a high school exchange student.

I didn't want him to go, but I helped him anyway.

My husband and I became parents later than most - I was 37, he was 45 - and we wanted to raise a child who was sophisticated and worldly. An adult, only cuter.

First, our boy got the interactive globe. A touch of the stylus on a country elicits a little voice with facts and figures. A second touch, and you get a mini-rendition of the country's national anthem.

It was one of my most rewarding purchases, along with the Cozy Coupe a few years earlier.

And we traveled. We went to Ireland twice and were there one Christmas night when Stephen was 11 and it began to snow. His five doting girl cousins coaxed him outside to play and the Florida boy caught Irish snowflakes on his tongue.

We toured Italy, where he discovered hazelnut gelato. We visited a concentration camp near Vienna.

Then my son discovered student exchanges. He could go to almost any country, live with a family and immerse himself in a new culture.

"I don't want you to go." I must have told him a hundred times.

"Why?" he would ask.

"You'll be far away. I'll miss you."

"That's not a reason," he said.

He was right. I couldn't honestly tell him it would be a waste of time; I couldn't tell him that if he didn't go, he would never regret it.

To paraphrase Sting, if you love somebody, let him go.

He left last August, and with each e-mail I can see him growing as a person, learning to take care of himself, to compromise.

There is a Zen to all this. For 17 years I have identified myself as Stephen's mother.

But like a tree falling in a deserted forest, am I still his mother if I am not actually mothering? I don't offer daily advice, don't make him breakfast. I don't rush to be home when he returns from school. And I don't rub his feet.

These days I mother via the Internet. He left home with tattered shoes, promising to buy new ones in Argentina. I e-mail, asking whether he has bought shoes yet.

When he was sick at home I'd make chicken soup and rub his feet. Now all I can do is sign my e-mails, "love, hugs and foot rubs."

We used to watch The Daily Show together, but it's not as funny anymore. He managed our Netflix queue; now I do a lot of fast forwarding, and an Irish expression used by my husband's grandmother comes to mind: You've taken the very taste out of my tea.

Life is suddenly bland, flavorless.

I want to warn people. When I see mothers with babies at the supermarket I want to tell them, "Enjoy your babies now, because before you know it, they will grow up and leave you."

I count the months until my son's return. He'll be home all summer, and then he leaves for college up North. But after a year in Argentina, that's almost around the block.

Readers may contact the writer at aliceggraves@yahoo.com.

Editor's note

A new voice joins LifeTimes

LifeTimes introduces a new columnist with this issue, and readers may recognize her byline. Alice Graves has been published in the Sunday Journal of the weekly Floridian section and has had freelance articles in the Times. A St. Petersburg resident, she's originally from New York City and holds an MFA in creative writing. As "a member of the boomer generation," she'll be writing about situations particular to that group.

[Last modified March 27, 2007, 07:15:32]