Letting Go to Gain Ground at Home

“Mom, I want to come back home and live with you.”

When I heard these words spill through the telephone receiver a year ago, I nearly fell off my chair in shock. My son, Jon, almost 16, had been living with his dad in a small town in the Midwest for over a year, and I thought he was happy. Wouldn’t any teenager allowed to live his life pretty much without rules be content?

But even more surprising than his decision was my response to it--I wasn’t sure I was ready for him to return.

Don’t get me wrong. I love my son and daughter as much as any mom, yet I had just begun to get used to the routine of one fewer teenager in the house and wasn’t mentally prepared for another change.

After the divorce, when our children were very young, my ex moved away, found another woman and another life.

I focused on raising Jon and his sister and getting a college degree, remarrying along the way.

My ex and I have very different ideas about raising kids--I believe in providing lots of structure; he believes in letting pretty much anything go.

I knew some good things happened to Jon during the year he was gone--his voice dropped an octave, and he sounded more sure of himself. He’d also gained a wonderful sense of humor. But to my chagrin, he bragged about the R-rated videos and CDs he owned, knowing I disapproved of them. “But I like reading more,” he offered, thinking that would please me. “Stephen King writes wicked books!”

I cringed. Though I admire King’s knack for storytelling, his use of profanity puts me off. Obviously Jon relished his newfound freedom to explore all that I had forbidden.

So when he announced his desire to return, my mind raced back to our many telephone disagreements over music, movies, curfews and grades.

I saw storm clouds gathering on the horizon and felt like I wouldn’t have a shelter. Yet I missed him so much. I had learned quickly after he left what “heartache” meant.

“Let him have his way!” a small voice within me cried. “All that matters is that he wants to come home!” Tempting.

Then better judgment took over. Young minds don’t need to feed on a steady diet of junk, I knew. And hope for the future still lies in good study habits and moral values learned at home.

“Honey,” I said tentatively, “nothing would make me happier than for you to come home, but you know that means leaving some of your CDs and videos behind.”

Silence. Then, “Yeah, I know.”

So why did he want to come home to Stick-in-the-Mud Mom?

The date for his return came fast; I grew more and more nervous. Waiting in John Wayne Airport for his plane to arrive, I remembered the small boy I had escorted onto an airplane a year and a half earlier. We used to be close--in the evenings we’d talk about his day and read stories together. But something told me he’d be different. Way different.

And he was. When Jon came off the plane, he towered above my 5-foot-9-inch frame by a full four inches.

And it didn’t take long before he began expressing his opinions in no uncertain terms and his dislikes loudly. He swore with no apologies; he held his fork like a monkey. What happened to the mild-mannered boy I had known? I hadn’t had the benefit of easing into this transformation.

Our first big battle was over schools, because we had moved into a bigger house in a different school district in anticipation of his return. “I’m going back to my old school where I know everyone,” Jon contended. Problem was, many of those kids had gone downhill while he was away, and they were part of the reason we moved.

“No, I’m afraid you’ll have to attend the local high school,” I persisted. He was not a happy camper.

Against every fiber of my being that cried out to let him be (if you’re too hard on him, he’ll high-tail it back to Dad, that voice said), I began reasoning with Jon about why we do things a certain way--a different way than what he’d gotten used to.

Time passed. We argued, disagreed, compromised and moved on. A few taboo CDs had found their way to my house (going-away gifts from friends); I offered to pay full price for them so Jon could buy more acceptable ones. I hoped that becoming reacquainted with old church friends (who also attended Jon’s new high school) would help the profanity problem. In time it did.

Curfew was a point of contention until Jon realized why he’d always felt tired at his dad’s house. Thank goodness for the natural time clock! He still has a tizzy whenever I correct his fork posture.

We were making progress, but it was tough. His teenage moodiness, and my impatience, didn’t help. In the grocery store once, he glared antagonistically at a man who accidentally bumped into him with a shopping cart. I laid into him when we reached the car. “How can you act that way? You’re embarrassing me!” I shouted. The next time he got on the phone with his dad and closed the door, I worried. What were they talking about in there?

The question still nagged at me: Why had he returned?

One day I finally gathered enough nerve to ask him point-blank. His response: “You can’t surf cornfields, Mom.”

Right. I was hoping for something a bit more personal.

One day that moment came. A group of Jon’s friends was gathered in our living room for a weekly Bible study, which Jon was leading that evening. Washing dishes, I kept hearing the word “mom” pop up in the other room. I turned off the water and listened, expecting to hear some reference to how strict I was.

And I did, but not in the way I expected.

I overheard my son telling his friends that the rules I had set up and expected him to follow proved, like God’s rules, how much I loved him.

And he told them: “I missed my mom. That’s why I came back.”