Why I Hate Roller Coasters, or, How I Learned to Stop Worrying And Love The Ride

I don’t like roller coasters. I never have. And yet I have recently found myself gripping through the roller coaster known as a teenaged boy’s life. If the real world changed as much as he has in the last few months, it would be an episode of “Revolution.” Oh, wait, that’s not real.

Anyway, my 15-year-old son, I discovered yesterday when he casually measured himself at Great Clips (reason for visit will come, be patient!), is just shy of 6’ tall. He’s 15. On my best days, I am 5’7” (that is what is says on my driver’s license, despite its inflated conflict with what it said on my chart at my most recent doctor’s visit). You see, when I had kids, I knew intellectually that they would grow up and be men. But what I never factored in was the thought that I’d have to physically look up to them. I’m not a short woman for my generation (and certainly not for Jews—I practically tower over all those squat ladies at temple), and looking up to my not-quite-grown boy child feels icky. Like I might have lost a little power. Or worst yet, like he now sees how thin my hair is on top.

Why were we at Great Clips? Is that all you’ve been thinking about this whole paragraph? OK, so, up until June, my son also had really long hair. Decidedly NOT a hipster, his hair was more of a rock ‘n roller choice, to match his serious drummer persona. But not only was it long, it was really thick, and he sweated a lot and it was in his face a lot, and I don’t know what happened, but in the spring he decided he wanted to cut it mostly off. Two days after school, off he went to Great Clips Sojourn #1 and came out with a short cut. And then the obsession started. We’ve been back 3 more times this summer, as he has finessed, and shortened, his hair. Now, as my partner warily commented, he could pass as a Republican.

It’s not just the hair and his height. They are big changes but ultimately not too hard to manage. No, the killer is, he has decided he wants to play football. Remember I’m a women’s studies gal, wary of gender-trappings of which football fits the masculinity trap in the highest order. I worry he’ll participate in gay-baiting (he doesn’t), or hurt himself in an effort to be the manliest on the team (he hasn’t). But what I’m now realizing as pre-season dwindles and school starts tomorrow, I’m now a football mom. You know, like the little moms you see on TV with their famous gargantuan football player sons. What’s crazy is, I am looking at (up to) an almost-man who is strong enough and tall enough for this crazy game, and I’m realizing that when I started this little lesbian family and thought how awesome it would be to raise feminist sons, I’m reeling a little bit from seeing my son become a man (I might also be reeling a little bit from the smell of his socks and holiest of holy hell of smells, his football jersey). He’s not a man yet, but I see the trajectory much more clearly, and wow, I’m just hoping I said and did the right things on that early part of the ride, when it’s all flat and you feel the wind in your hair, just before the ride drops too many feet and you can’t go back to the beginning and you have to depend on the good work of others to make it safely out the other side. Let’s hope the same is true for raising boys and men.