GAIL WHITE When babies become teenagers, parents have to grow up

It seems like just yesterday I was kissing my oldest son's boo-boos and holding on to the back of his bike as he learned to ride a two-wheeler. Now, at 14 years old, if I even think of kissing him or holding him in any way I am quickly shunned -- especially if there are friends present.
Since this poor child is our oldest, he carries the burden of breaking in my husband and me on proper parental behavior in the presence of teenagers. (Truly, it is a "breaking" process -- a breaking of the heart.)
The need for our adjustment in this process became imminently clear when my baby was heading off to football camp. Oops ... I mean, when my young man was heading off to football camp.
I was still reeling from the football moms meeting I had just attended.
"Don't buy their game day shirts to wear to school," the veteran moms told us freshman greenbacks. "You don't know the size they will need."
We told them we would just buy them big.
They chuckled and said, "They won't want them big."
We thought we knew
We assured them our boys liked big shirts.
"They do now," the vets told us. "When they build up their muscles, they want them really tight."
Every freshman mother's mouth dropped to the floor. Our babies were going to grow big muscles and wear tight shirts.
With this revelation still weighing heavy on my mind, I set out to prepare my child for football camp.
I knew he was nervous about going, being a freshman and somewhat intimidated by the upper classmen.
OK, so he wasn't so nervous about it. I was.
I ran around like a fool washing clothes, running to the store and making lists of everything he needed to pack.
The seventh time I asked him if he had enough underwear, he appeased my need to overcompensate and said, "No." I bought him four more pairs.
When he wasn't looking, I stuffed an extra pair of long pants in his bag -- just in case it got cold in the evenings.
I knew he would be well-fed at camp, but after three practices a day he might have some hunger pains. I went to the store and loaded him up with good, nutritious snacks. He refused to take the juice bottles. After he left, I found the strawberry fig newtons with his brothers.
"He didn't want them, so we ate them," they happily informed me.
Ouch
I was hurt.
The morning he left, my husband had had enough of my over-mothering. We had a slight tiff as we walked out the door.
"Leave the boy alone," he told me curtly. "You are going way over the edge with this."
Now I was hurt and mad.
Arriving at the bus, we quickly learned that parents don't stand and wave goodbye as the team drives away. I squelched the urge to kiss him on the forehead and settled for a quick half-hug. Then we drove away.
We had passed the test. We were growing up and letting go.
Then, Dad had a brainstorm.
Facetiously playing off my over-mothering, he drove back to the buses, now loaded with team members. Waving to one of my son's friends he yelled, "Does Bobby have enough tissues?"
The friend yelled across the bus, "Bobby, you got enough tissues?"
I cannot imagine the look on my son's face.
"He doesn't have any tissues," the friend reported back.
"Does he have his sneakers?" my husband continued.
"He's got his sneakers," the friend said, smiling, having caught on to my husband's game. "But he doesn't have any soap!"
We were so close. We had gone from a B+ to an F- on the proper parental behavior scale.
My husband's witticism about my over-mothering backfired on him after the buses pulled away.
"I think I'll drive up there and watch them practice this afternoon," he said with a sad, serious tone.
I gave him a "who's-over-the-edge-now" look.
We drove home in silence, wondering how much more heartbreaking this breaking-in process would be.
gwhite@vindy.com