COMMENTARY: The delicate dance of mothering a man

c. 1998 Religion News Service (Dale Hanson Bourke is the publisher of RNS and the mother of two boys.) UNDATED _ This Mother’s Day will be different. This Mother’s Day I will be the mother of a man. Sure, he’s still a teen-ager; not yet old enough to drive. But at some point during the […]

c. 1998 Religion News Service

(Dale Hanson Bourke is the publisher of RNS and the mother of two boys.)

UNDATED _ This Mother’s Day will be different.


This Mother’s Day I will be the mother of a man.

Sure, he’s still a teen-ager; not yet old enough to drive. But at some point during the past year my son became less boy than man. And I became more peer than mommy.

It may seem like a subtle shift; a natural and expected progression. But the change is enormous for both of us. It redefines everything about who we are and how we will relate for the rest of our lives.

I am not really needed anymore. My job is almost over. It is time to sit back and applaud, to admire and offer advice when consulted. But there is little I can do to shape this man-child now. He is mostly setting his own course these days.

I am not a smothering mother. I value my own independence and have encouraged it in my children. But it is a breath-taking reality when a child truly chooses his own path.”For better or for worse”was a wedding vow I made, not something I considered in Lamaze class.

Mostly I am surprised by good choices, by the strength of character I prayed for but was never sure would develop out of the taunting and teasing phase of childhood. I am awed by the muscles that ripple in limbs once pudgy and clinging.

I am overtaken by the mind that asks questions more probing than many adults I know and the discipline that is now self-imposed and in some ways more developed than my own.

Chase is more conservative than me and I find this both surprising and amusing. I was the rebellious teen who shocked my staid Midwestern parents by protesting and questioning.

He taunts me with statements like,”The woman I marry will want to stay home with the children instead of working all the time.”He is joking _ sort of.

Watching the news, he now has ideas of how to solve the world’s problems. My husband and I listen with fascination as he spews political ideologies with great confidence.


But he is more aware of the incongruities of the world than I was at his age. The boy he tutors lives 15 minutes from our house but inhabits a different universe. Chase is outraged by the boy’s lack of school supplies and deplorable learning conditions.”It’s so unfair!”he often rails. He has not yet figured out that righting wrongs takes time and sacrifice. I try not to look too excited by the burgeoning signs of social activism.

Hesitantly, I ask to be included in this adult life. He struggles over an algebra problem and I offer to take a look. Twenty years since my last math class leaves me baffled by basic equations. I am no help, but he hasn’t really asked for it. He is letting me feel included, but he makes his own decisions.

These days I need his help to move a piece of furniture or to open a jar. He’s generally good-natured about these opportunities to demonstrate brute strength. But I find I must fall back on my feminine wiles at times, playing to his developing masculinity in order to get him to do what I want.

I rarely tell him what to do anymore. Maybe I am intimidated by his towering presence. Or maybe I simply have less occasion to”boss him around,”as my younger son accuses me of doing some days.”Don’t forget, mom,”Chase began a sentence the other day and I had to pause to calculate when I stopped being the one reminding and became the one who was exasperatingly forgetful.

My calendar is full of his schedule. I book flights around lacrosse games and skip social events so I can help shuttle him to parties. But I sometimes miss a passing reference that becomes a major occasion.

It is odd now to see him performing on the playing field or stage.”Who is that tall, handsome man?”I sometimes think before realizing it is my own son. I watch with awe as he executes a difficult play or belts out a jazz tune.


All of those lessons and hours of practice are now programming a mature mind and body. Skinned knees and screeching notes are a dim memory. He moves with grace and confidence and I no longer hold my breath, hoping he won’t be embarrassed by a stumble.

Yes, he may still stumble or fall. But he won’t look for me when it happens. He picks himself up these days. He learns his own lessons in his own way.

It is a delicate dance being the mother of a man. Now I mostly sit and watch, waiting to be invited into his world. Now I hope and pray the lessons I taught him as a child will serve him well as an adult.

END BOURKE

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