Today’s guest post is from Jenny, who lives on the east coast with her husband and five terrific kids. Her children say: “she cooks good food, and takes too many pictures.” She likes to eat food that other people cook (preferably people in restaurants), take pictures, write, shop, spend time with family and to be on vacation.
. . .
“GET OUT OF MY ROOM!”
I silently scream, while I concentrate on willing my face to remain placid, interested, focused.
I smile, I nod, I ask questions. I steal looks to my husband that convey my desperation for the few spare moments in between a very. long. day. and (hopefully) a deep uninterrupted sleep. I want to read, I want to talk to another grown-up, I want to clock-out for the day; I want decompression time.
But the child lingers.
It is the magic moment of deep confidences and honest answers to “how was your day?” It is the “one more story, one more kiss, can I have a drink of water?” from early days. It is, in effect, part stall-tactic and part sub-conscious act of desperation, “I must, I must get these words out so I will be able to sleep tonight.” While it was still early, I watched him struggle, and squirm, and tease and sulk, not quite sure what to do with his evening. Something right up close, but just under the surface wanting to be freed. “Ask me. Ask me. Ask me,” he pleads with his restlessness. And so I do.
But the words are stuck. And they cannot come out. (Why is it, the older they get, the less of themselves must be revealed in daylight hours; and the older I get, the more I wish it were not so.)
Frustration boils. The night is over. The busy bustle and sometimes struggle of teeth, pajamas, prayers, bed begins. Every child needs their own invitation it seems. Sometimes more than one. I watch the clock, freedom for me is near. I can taste it. But in my periphery, I can feel the fidgety angst. And my lovely thoughts of relaxation swirl the drain.
He waits draped across the bed. Spindly arms and legs. (When did they get so long?)
Other children vie for attention (isn’t it always the way in large families?)–but not really needing it and seeing an opportunity for a temporary “lights out” reprieve, they silently scamper away to play or read.
“What?” I ask.
There is still silence. They are almost ready to escape, but his words still need a few more minutes of patience. I breathe. I wait. I start to get ready for bed. NOW I am really ready for my bedroom solace.
I give him a look, and magically, as if the clock chiming away has released the spell,
the words tumble out.
(Phew, nothing really serious this time. Just too many thoughts and feelings struggling for existence and validation. A little trouble at school. Some questions. Some advice. Some love.)
And so I listen.
I should be so glad that this is where he wants to be. Right here, in my room, confiding in me, close to me. The message I send him is this: I am here if you want me to be.
And here
I will always be.
. . .
When and where are your teens and tweens most likely to spill their guts? When are they most willing to let you in? How do you watch for it so you don’t miss it?
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