And today, my son is thirteen years old. Now that he is a teenager, he can start a Facebook account, although I have always been somewhat elusuve and circumspect about mentioning him on social media until relatively recently. This momentous age throws a lot of my life into perspective. I have been told repeatedly that I have a good memory and can vividly recall, for better or for worse, much of being twelve, myself.
So now I look at myself and wonder what my struggling twelve-year-old self would think of who I have become. I grew up in the 1980's in a small city that aped a small town in its attitudes and atmosphere. I first used a typewriter and then a slew of computers before the rise of the Internet and personal computers and gadgets. He is growing up during Covid in a big city and is a digital native who can cide video games, to cite a few notable contrasts.
Am I who I want to be? Am I there enough for my son? Am I reigning in my temper, having worked at it for a while now? How do I keep my foibles from imprinting on him? What do I feel the need to change about myself? How do I guide without (always) nagging, teach by example without preaching?
No easy answers to any such questions, and more, of course. I know that much. The answer lies in the doing and learning for the most part, and rolling with any inevitable mistakes as best I can. He is a great, kind-hearted, creative, empathetic kid. Must have done something right so far.
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