A Pre-Adolescent Story

By Dorothy Nixon

He still sits on my lap on occasion, although he wouldn't want any of his friends to know. Now and then he lapses into playful "baby talk" -- although he can read and write perfectly well in Canada's two official languages, French and English. He's eleven now, my son Andrew, and has inherited my tall and lanky body, which he throws around with a great deal less caution than I ever did.

As he often tells me, he's certainly "not a baby anymore" -- especially not when I insist he go to bed at a reasonable hour.

"I'm not a baby; I should be able to go to bed when I feel like it," he informs me. "I'm not a baby; I should be able to take a shower when I want to! I should be able to do my homework when I want -- it's MY homework!"

There is a mixture of defiance and dignity in his nightly protests. There is frustration, too, because he thinks I don't understand. But of course I do. In fact, as my husband is fond of pointing out, "Andrew has strong ideas about what he wants and about justice. He takes no shit -- he's just like you."

My son is growing up. I knew this would happen, of course. I knew he would start to pull away, but I always assumed it would be later rather than sooner -- at age fourteen, fifteen, or sixteen -- but not at eleven. Eleven seems so early. Having had first-hand experience, I knew that girls reached puberty around the age of twelve, but boys, I'd always assumed, developed much later.

I can actually pinpoint the moment my Andrew turned the corner on this next phase of his life. Two months ago -- out of the blue -- he dropped his dazzling dinosaur comforter on the living room floor and said, "I don't want this in my room anymore."

Andrew had slept under those whimsical blue and green dinosaurs from the time he outgrew his crib. His childhood room also had red, white and blue clouds and a border of winking kiddie cars. Boys rooms, I firmly believed, should have kiddie cars. In those days, the decor in Andrew's room was strictly a projection of my illusions about childhood.

But now Andrew wants his room his way. As he explained in his sober way, "I would like a new comforter, and a carpet and blinds -- NOT a curtain. I want purple walls -- dark purple -- a new desk, and my own TV."

He wants a lot, I know, but I honor his feelings. He needs to make his room reflect his personality.

"The walls could use a new coat of paint," I agreed. "And we can get a new comforter, too, for your birthday.... Maybe Grandmaman will kick in for the carpet. But a TV? Good luck, my dear!"

There are other signs, too, of Andrew's impending adolescence. One evening last month, after his shower, he spent a full half-hour in the bathroom combing his hair -- that is thirty minutes more than all the time he's taken to groom since he's been gracing this earth.

And the other day, as I stood over him to help him conjugate some sticky French verbs, I almost gagged. He's always been an active boy, but now his athleticism comes at a price -- roughly equivalent to the price of a deodorant stick. How to put the matter to him without offending him?

"Mummy, I think I'm into puberty," he finally says to me one day.

"How do you know?" I ask.

"I don't want to say."

"One way to tell is that you start to stink," I tell him. "Grown-ups use deodorant."

I can just tell I am going to be clumsy at this.

It's a good thing we got him that sex education book with the charming cartoons titled, "It's Perfectly Normal." He read it with interest. In fact, we flipped through it together. The book taught me that there are some facts of life I am still unclear about! Actually, I'm pretty open about sex and neither of my sons minds talking to me about AIDS, reproduction, and such. In Andrew's case, this could be a pretty good indication he hasn't reached puberty yet.

But Rome wasn't built in a day and neither are sexually aware kids. It's a gradual process, and there is no better place to keep track of this process than in the wardrobe department. I used to believe that clothing fanaticism was pronounced only in adolescent girls. Wrong again!

Shopping with my new tweenage son is a terrific pain -- mostly in my pocket book. Fortunately, he doesn't yet want those ultra-hip, ultra-baggy pants that all the teenage boys are wearing -- the ones with the crotch that hangs around the knees. Andrew admires the fashion, but as he puts it, "You can't play soccer in those pants -- you'd fall flat on your face!"

But when it comes to jackets and T-shirts, they must be just so. The frustrating part is that he can't even explain what looks right and what doesn't. Fashion sense is instinctive at that age -- an instinctive need to fit in, to follow the crowd. An item of clothing I think makes Andrew look absolutely gorgeous causes him to squirm with embarrassment. And I finally found out why he never wears that expensive pair of black Reeboks Grandmaman bought him: a schoolmate made fun of them because they aren't hightops. I was a little perturbed -- after all, those shoes cost a small fortune -- but before I blew up at him, I took a deep breath and remembered what it feels like to be a teenager. It feels confusing.

My father grew up in pre-war England. As he tells it, teenagers didn't exist back then. First you were a child and then you were an adult. No in-between stage. No wonder he couldn't empathize with my less rational teenage clothing demands.

"Why must you be like everyone else?" he'd ask.

I felt ashamed for wanting to fit in, but he just wanted to save himself some money.

Luckily, bell-bottomed jeans didn't cost too much and those silly swirling denim pants were the only style you could find anyway. So I fit in -- a bit. And neither of my parents cared that I wore my skirts so short that I froze my thighs while waiting for the bus. They must have understood something about adolescence.

Yes, I can remember all too clearly what it feels like to be pulled in two directions at once, between wanting to stand out -- shout out -- your uniqueness and wanting to conform, fit in, blend in; become almost invisible. So I have made a promise to myself to humor Andrew's fashion whims. I want to honor his feelings -- up to a point. But no one-hundred-dollar Tommy T-shirts. There is a limit!

On Andrew's eleventh birthday, we honor him with a big can of purple paint, and he is thrilled. Okay, it is one shade lighter than the color he asked for, but we know he won't be the wiser. There is a carpet and a deep brown, manly comforter, too.

With his birthday money burning a hole through his unfashionable stovepipe jeans, we take Andrew to the mall, his head bobbing back and forth in the back of the car as he listens to his new Walkman.

Andrew asks to wander the busy mall by himself.

I'm eleven now, " he says.

"Alone in this busy mall?" I wonder. "What if he gets shaken down for the Walkman?"

But I let him go with instructions to meet us in an hour -- no later, I warn. "Wait," I called out after him. "Make that half an hour!"

Of course, he isn't back in half an hour. I wait, trying to look cool, but feeling very anxious. My husband saunters off to check out the book and music stores for our wayward adolescent-in-the-bud.

I look around. There are no other young boys walking alone in the mall. How could I have been so stupid?

Right on the hour, he shows up dressed in a brand new Canadien's hockey shirt, looking -- I had to admit -- quite stylish.

"You know, money goes fast," he tells me.

I can only smile.

"Mom, I like moving around the mall by myself. I want to do it again, next time we come," he tells me.

"Sure, next time," I say, not sure I'll ever let him loose again.

That evening we begin clearing out his room for the symbolic renovation. He's got our tape caddy under his bed, because he's been looking for something to play on his new Walkman. His choices include Stevie Wonder, Ray Charles, Simon and Garfunkel, Tina Turner, and every Barbra Streisand album ever made. REO Speedwagon, Steely Dan, Loggins and Massina, Pink Floyd, Black Sabbath are other options from his dad's ancient collection.

"You don't have any music I like." Andrew proclaims.

"What do you mean?" I say. "Here's 'Tea for the Tillerman' by Cat Stevens, one of the best albums ever. It's the soundtrack for a terrific movie called 'Harold and Maude,' where a young boy has, ahem, an affair with a very old woman...sort of a rite of passage thing...well...never mind. Let's listen."

I race to the living room and pop the tape into the stereo. I return to the bedroom.

My husband, Andrew and I start clearing off the shelves to the nostalgic caterwauling of that Boomer anthem. The words to take on new meaning.

I was once as you are now, and I know that it's not easy....

My husband hands me a Clifford book that had been lost among the meaty adventure and gothic horror books my son has grown to love, and I smile at the silly red dog that was once Andrew's favorite. I can still hear Cat Stevens wailing, "There's so much you have to go through. You'll still be here tomorrow, but your dreams may not...."

My heart feels full to bursting, only I can't tell whether it's with happiness or sadness.

1999© Dorothy Nixon, all rights reserved