As seen on: LivingBetterat50+
He sits in the passenger seat beside me wearing his uniform: red, knee length swim trunks, a white T-shirt with the word "Lifeguard" spread across the back, a whistle around his neck. I take in the sight, knowing that it will soon be a cherished memory. I remember other uniforms: lime green pajamas with cartoon characters on the front, a black ninja outfit for Halloween, a baggy soccer uniform on his small four-year-old frame. He has a new haircut. I can see his delicate facial features: well defined eyebrows, long, black eyelashes an easy smile. The features that I appreciated every day when he was young but have often failed to notice since he hit puberty and since I turned 45. He has been busy trying to break away, as he should. I have been busy trying to move on and to hide my heartache, as much as I can.
He talks to me about his job and I listen and I can tell that he still cares that I listen. He tells me about the beginning of his cross country running season and that he will be among the leaders of the team during his senior year. I am impressed and I can tell that it still matters to him that I am. We talk about colleges and I encourage him to follow his deep interest in the one that is half-way across the country, even though the distance is a concern. I see him surprised at my encouragement, but glad that he still has my support. Though he is almost 17 years old and nearly 6 feet tall, I see that he is still vulnerable, still lighthearted, still interested in what his mom thinks of his life. The same son as before, only in a different uniform.
But today, during a quiet few moments together in my car, I realize that I haven’t lost anything. My little boy has simply grown into a fine young man and we are still mother and son.