The Changeling

The dictionary defines a changeling as a strange child left by fairies in place of your real bundle of joy. This fable confirms what I’ve been suspecting for weeks. The boy in my son’s bed wearing my son’s pajamas is not really my son. Oh he looks just like him. And if I bury my nose in the crown of his head and inhale deeply, there’s that singular smell that is his alone, a scent that can still make my knees buckle with maternal love. But I am not fooled. These fairies are good at what they do.

I found his yearbook on the table and flipped through it. Not much to see or even read; he’s only in fifth grade. Suddenly a page gave me pause. There in the middle of the 4th grade class photo in his still childish scrawl was one word written beneath a picture of an unsuspecting nine-year old girl. “Hottie.”

First I am stunned that he knows this term and how to use it. Next I look closer to see what kind of taste he has (oh come on, so would you). Then I laugh and ponder what to do with this newfound information. Blackmail opportunities abound and he will be mortified if he knows I’ve seen this. I store this information to use at an opportune time.

Then I wonder. Who is this boy with shadows of manhood dusting his upper lip and body? I’m alarmed at his need for deodorant and the way his size S/M boxers have begun “tenting up” unexpectedly when he’s feeling restless, agitated or anxious. But what gives the imposter away is all in the eyes. My son, my first born, even when he didn’t get his way always had a softness in his eyes I could connect with. He hated to think he might have done something to disappoint me. But this child in front of me now manages a steady gaze full of barely concealed defiance. He does not back down or look away when I rebuke him. And dare I say there’s a hint of mockery in his expression too – the realization (so soon!) that mom does not know everything.

I don’t like the word “tween” because I know that it is merely a marketing term invented to help retailers push tons of useless products on a completely fabricated demographic. Eight to twelve-year olds do not need starter phones, laptops with training wheels or anything at all that sports a picture of the Jonas Brothers. If you get sucked into that you will soon be running an eBay store trying to sell all the techie toys your kid just had to have but has now outgrown. Which is why my son (in his assessment) is the lone child in his peer group who does not have his own calling plan, email address or My Space page. Most of my reasoning on this is simple: I will not waste money on things he does not need. The underlying reasons are more complex; I don’t want him to grow up.

My daughter, who is six, has a deep conviction that she is the boss of everybody. Actually, as a little African American girl in a sea of white kids at our local private school, she delighted going to school on November 5 and telling anyone who would listen that Obama was now the boss of everybody. But that may be another blog. The point is she’s got the “girl’s rule” thing down pat. And I’m O.K. with that. I figured we’d face the mother/daughter battle of the wills eventually. But my boy, now that’s another story. He’s my baby, my pie, my cub, my man child. And already he is slipping away. A friend whose sons are grown and gone recently said to me “They weigh on your lap for such a short time, but they weigh on your heart forever.”

Tonight my son told me that money makes the world go around. He was feeling flush with cash, having just gotten a ten from his grandma. I chuckled when he said it and replied, “Well I’m glad you’ve got the world figured out. Who told you that anyhow?” “Mr. Koo-rabs” he said with authority. I racked my brain for a moment – PE teacher? Playground Aid? “Who is Mr. Koo-rabs?” I asked as I walked right into it because it dawned on me in the instant he rolled his eyes and said, “You know. Mr. Crabs. On Sponge Bob!” I smiled, relieved, at least for the moment and nodded, “That’s my boy.”