Thirteen years ago, I brought Joey home from the hospital. I walked into the house, set his car seat down, and did something I can still picture perfectly: I ate a Jimmy John’s sandwich.
Joey sat there in his car seat while I ate, and tears quietly rolled down my face.
I had absolutely no idea what to do.
Obviously, I knew there were diapers and bottles and sleeping and all the things you’re technically supposed to do with a baby. But what was I supposed to do with him? Do I pick him up? Do I let him sleep? Am I supposed to be talking to him? What do we do all day?
And perhaps the bigger question running through my head:
How am I somebody’s mom now?
I wish I could go back and sit next to that girl for a minute. I’d probably steal a bite of her sandwich first.
Then I’d tell her: You don’t know what you’re doing. And that’s okay.
Because neither does he.
You’re going to grow up together.
And for thirteen years, that’s exactly what we’ve done.
The Boy Who Made Me Mom
Joey was my first baby, which means he got the most inexperienced version of me. The version who read the books and still didn’t know what the hell she was doing. The version who worried. The version who made mistakes. The version who didn’t yet understand that motherhood isn’t something you figure out and then magically become good at.
You learn your kid while your kid is learning you.
Little Joey was cautious, observant and reserved. He was a rule follower. He’d take things in before jumping in. He wasn’t the kid who needed to be the loudest person in the room.
Thirteen-year-old Joey is still observant and thoughtful, but I’m watching him find his voice.
He participates in class. He’s more willing to put himself out there. He’ll speak up.
And the strict rule-following phase?
Well. We’ve apparently moved on from that.
These days, I’m getting acquainted with Impulsive Joey—the kid who occasionally does something without considering any of the consequences and then, approximately four seconds into my explanation of why it was a bad idea, responds:
“I know, Mom.”
Sure you do, buddy.
He apparently knows everything now.
Except where his binder is.
Or his shoes.
Or the thing I handed him 45 seconds ago.
I’m fairly certain this child would forget Joey if Joey weren’t physically attached to him.
He’ll Show You Who He Is
For all the things Joey forgets, though, he remembers the things that matter.
He’s loyal like a golden retriever.
He’s an incredible helper to Nana and Goomba and to Papa. He doesn’t need attention for doing it. He just helps.
That’s Joey.
He’s never been a kid who needs a lot of words to tell you who he is. He leads by example. He’s more actions than bullshit.
You see it with his family, and I see it when he plays basketball.
He encourages other kids on the court. He keeps playing until the last second on the clock. Whether they’re winning or losing, there’s still time left, so he’s still playing.
He’s sensitive and strong at the same time.
He’s also an adventurous eater, assuming we’re using a fairly loose definition of “adventurous” that includes Dave’s Hot Chicken and P.F. Chang’s.
We’re working on it.
But perhaps my favorite thing about Joey at 13 is that somewhere underneath this increasingly independent teenage boy is still my little kid.
He still wants me to scratch his back.
He still wants me to tuck him in.
One minute I’m getting a glimpse of the young man he’s becoming, and the next I’m standing beside his bed scratching his back the same way I have a thousand nights before.
I know those nights are numbered.
And maybe that’s part of why 13 is hitting me so hard.
Looking Back at the Little Boy He Was
I’ve been looking through old pictures of Joey lately. And while I expected to notice how much he’s changed, something else caught me off guard.
He was so little.
He was so little when his dad and I divorced.
He was so little when I began my recovery journey.
When you’re living through hard years, you don’t always have the perspective you have later. You put one foot in front of the other. You get everyone where they need to go. You make dinner. You sign the permission slips. You get through the day in front of you.
Then years later, you find an old picture and look at that little face and think:
Oh my God. He was just a baby.
So, Joey, there is something I want you to know as you get older.
None of it was yours to carry.
The divorce wasn’t your fault. My struggles weren’t your fault. My recovery wasn’t your responsibility.
There were times when I was so consumed with surviving my own life that I’m sure I missed things you needed from me. There were times I isolated. Times I wasn’t as present as you deserved. Times when adult problems spilled into your childhood even though they never should have been yours to hold.
I can’t go backward and mother that little boy differently.
And I don’t want to turn your story into a story about my regrets.
I just want you to know that I see it now.
And I see you.
Maybe We’ve Both Been Growing Up
I’ve spent so much time thinking about how quickly my oldest son is growing up that I almost missed something:
I’ve been growing up, too.
The woman eating that Jimmy John’s sandwich thirteen years ago isn’t the woman writing this today.
Thank God.
But I don’t want to be ashamed of her, either.
She loved that baby so much that she sat there crying because she was terrified she wouldn’t know how to do this right.
She didn’t know what was coming. She didn’t know the mistakes she’d make or the hard years she’d face. She didn’t know how many times she’d have to start over.
She certainly didn’t know that thirteen years later she’d be yelling, “WHERE IS YOUR BINDER?” at that tiny sleeping baby.
She was just his mom.
Learning in real time.
And Joey was just Joey.
Growing right alongside her.
Maybe that’s one of the greatest gifts your first child gives you. They don’t just make you a mother.
They witness you becoming one.
To Joey on Your 13th Birthday
So, Joey, here’s what I want for you at thirteen.
Take the shot. Play until the last second.
Find your voice.
Screw up. Own it. Learn. Try again.
Help people when nobody is keeping score.
Stay loyal.
Stay sensitive. Please don’t ever mistake sensitivity for weakness.
Keep leading by what you do, not by what you say.
And maybe—just maybe—occasionally consider the consequences before doing the thing.
You don’t have to know exactly who you’re becoming yet.
I’m 40 and I’m still working on it.
I won’t always get this right. Neither will you. But maybe that’s kind of our thing.
We’ve been figuring it out together since the day I brought you home, put your car seat on the floor and cried into a Jimmy John’s sandwich because I didn’t know what came next.
Thirteen years later, I still don’t know exactly what comes next.
But I’m not scared of that the way I used to be.
Because I know you now.
And I know me now, too.
So keep growing, Joey.
I’ll keep growing with you.
I’ll be the one reminding you about whatever you’ve forgotten, yelling from the sidelines and, for however long you’ll let me, scratching your back before bed.
Happy 13th birthday to the boy who made me Mom.
Thanks for growing up with me.
