Teenage Wasteland

I am the parent of a teenager.  Words that chill the heart of anyone who has parented, educated or interacted with the under 20 but over 12 set.

What happened to the child who giggled at my every joke and funny face?  What happened to the stocky toddler with the wispy curls who ran so fast; his little legs, churning out of control, until he fell head long onto the ground?  I remember what seems like yesterday the sight of him, hugging Winnie the Pooh, smiling in his sleep and dreaming blissful dreams.

This child of mine has grown into an adolescent, sometimes sullen and often silent.  The little boy has become almost a man with his own interior life: a party of one to which I'm no longer invited. 

As he grows into his bigger self, images of his former life as a happy go lucky boy flash through at times:  the funny joke at the expense of his father or the request to sleep on the floor of his brother's room after a particularly scary television show.  Sometimes I see him smiling at a joke I've just made, when he thinks I don't notice.

I know he is spreading his wings and finding the real him.  I'm glad to say I've met the real him and love him very much. In fact, I think I saw him last night, hugging Winnie the Pooh, smiling in his sleep and dreaming blissful dreams.