His room doesn’t have a thermostat, but it feels like a balmy 78 degrees each time I knock on his door, tentatively cracking it open a sliver to inquire about the state of his awakening.
Sometimes he’s still sleeping. A starfish splayed out over the mattress; tangled in bed linens.
Often, he is already wide awake.
His whole life is in there … somewhere. The first thing I see when I tip my head inside is a grammar school diorama balanced at an awkward angle on top of a myriad of other possessions …. collecting dust on the dresser.
I can only step inside but not walk around. Everywhere I look his childhood looks back: A wall of Nerf, shelves of Lego; drawers stuffed to overflowing with clothes that he has long outgrown. He lives out of laundry baskets.
One of these days, (I tell myself daily), I will get in there and take control of the clutter.
The clock is ticking.
The warm air is pungent with spent socks and the remnants of midnight snacks, but I can also make out the smells of various tinctures and tonics he uses to make his shaves more smooth and his hair more rugged.
I try to be careful. Speak softly, try not to startle him. The moods of teenagers are appropriately fickle whether we parents approve or not. But still … I am his second wake-up call if you count the sunrise clock that makes no sound.
It can be a delicate job that his father often drill-sergeants through to his own detriment. I endeavor to handle him with kid gloves.
Not that we don’t get the same response - I’m awake! - it’s just that he sounds much less annoyed as he relays his assurances that he will be ready to leave on time.
I find trusting his word builds equity. He knows I’ll be the one owing late fees as I wait for a second cup of coffee to brew as he’s warming the car. He doesn’t beep the horn, instead, he pings my phone with a string of “MOM”s in rapid fire.
We are not going to be late. But time is dwindling. Soon enough - if he follows his sister’s lead - we will be packing a car with all his dorm room essentials.
Recently, he attended his third college tour. The first that was meant solely for him. As a younger brother, he had trailed along silently but with his eyes fully focused on the work at hand. I could tell he was looking forward to taking his turn one day even if he wasn’t ready to map it all out by himself.
So I made an appointment and sent him off with his father to explore his first choice. A university with two campuses to choose from just outside of his ability to commute.
“He really opened up,” his father told me on one of many calls to keep me apprised. The boy had navigated maps, asked questions, and chatted with other prospective students with an air of confidence that my husband admitted had come as a surprise.
“He really seems like he’s coming out of his shell.”
Funny how we still see our children as we get closer to ushering them into adulthood.
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