A line was crossed tonight. At the usual “going upstairs to brush teeth” time, my twelve-year-old son, a boy approaching the end of his first year in middle school, a tween, you might say, gently advised me that he was growing up.
“Now that I’m getting older, you don’t have to baby me. Like, you don’t have to read to me every night.”
He looked at me cautiously, like I might implode. I thanked him for letting me down so easily, and said that I understood, and that I didn’t think my parents still read to me at night when I was in the sixth grade either.
He seemed relieved, a confrontation he’d been anticipating had been met and resolved.
All I can think is that I should have asked, “Does this mean I don’t have to make your lunch tonight either?”