When I was pregnant with my oldest son thirteen years ago my friend gifted my future child a stuffed animal bunny rabbit. This bunny became The Bunny. The bunny that slept with my son every night. Every single night. Miraculously we never lost him nor did a dog ever confuse him for a toy chew. He started out light beige and adorable. After twelve years of hard use he became more of a dishwater gray with balding patches of mange-like missing fur. About two years ago Jack stopped sleeping with bunny, but though he had long since outgrown all other stuffed animals, he carefully placed bunny on a shelf in his closet. I imagined just being able to see and sniff Bunny on occasion was enough comfort for him.
So really I should have expected what came next. Which is to say I walked into my closet one morning and there was bunny lying down helplessly on my bureau, staring up at the ceiling. I think Bunny was as shocked and despondent as I was that he had finally become obsolete. I didn’t touch him. In fact, it’s been a week and a half and still he lays right where my twelve-year-old going on eighteen placed him. My husband, being the quintessential stoic American man, was nonplussed by the abandonment of bunny. I was really hoping for someone to commiserate with. Someone to understand how deeply tragic this symbolic end to childhood was. But when I asked him if he was upset at all he gave me that blank 1,000 yard stare which typically means he has no flipping clue what I’m talking about. “Our son’s childhood is over!” I wanted to scream at him.
Here’s the thing, I know that my son wasn’t going to take that dang toy to college with him. I’m not raising Norman Bates. I want a son who can grow emotionally and move on from his childhood—and, you know, not become a serial killer. But that is the logical part of my mom brain. The emotional mom part of my brain was willfully ignorant to the impending end of childhood and the arrival of the angsty teenage years. The emotional part of my mom brain feels like I just had two potato chips and someone took the rest of the bag away from me. I’m not finished eating! I love that salty snack and I want more!
Especially as a working mom—and I don’t mean this as some kind of dig at stay at home moms who are our sisters—I find myself questioning if I gave enough, was I engaged enough, did I miss things I should have been paying attention to? Did I fail and now it’s too late to fix it? I feel like time is up on the childhood clock and there’s no looking back now. Was I good enough? Did I lay a strong enough foundation so that my son and I can both survive the teen years? God I hope so.
So as I ponder the best way to lovingly pack away the ultimate symbol of my son’s childhood take this as a reminder to hug your littles a bit tighter, take that afternoon off from work and pick your kids up early, take that family vacation you don’t think you have time to take. Because before you know it, you’ll be staring into the oncoming train of hormones, acne, and the opposite sex…. and you’ll wish you had.
For laughter and inspiration read my book The Working Mommy's Manual, available on Amazon.
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