Boyhood

Dave and I watched Boyhood for the second time a couple of weeks ago. The first time was when RJ was a baby. I wept through almost the entire movie.

I didn’t fully understand why I cried so hard. But with a tiny baby in my arms, watching how the boy, Manson, grew up, the changes he went through, the challenges the mom faced, the milestones one after another, and the messiness of their lives, all packed into three hours on the screen made me deeply emotional, even though it was impossible to imagine what could be ahead of us.

I knew my life was going to change. I didn’t know how profoundly.

I told myself after those three hours of sobbing: I want to watch Boyhood again someday.

RJ turns 13 today.

I’ve been grappling with the process of learning how to interact with him with the right balance. The struggle is not simply because of the number 13. It’s that his growing independence and his “pulling away” seemed to accelerate over the past couple of months.

I’ve been feeling sad, a sense of grief about how it can seem pointless to raise a child with so much care and love, only to feel as though it all comes back to just me in the end.

One night a couple of weeks ago, I completely lost it over something small but something felt ultimately unfair. I went in my office, locked the door, and cried for nearly an hour, uncontrollably. That kind of sadness, deep in my chest, is impossible to explain. It almost felt like suffocation that I struggled to escape.

I didn’t want to talk. I didn’t know how to explain.

I went for a walk alone the next day, couldn’t hold my tears back. I knew I needed some help getting out of that dark sadness.

That night, I put on Boyhood.

This time, I didn’t cry at all. It all felt expected, and I had lived through the same emotions, one way or another. The only moment that made me tearful was when the mom tells Mason, as he packs for college, after listing all the milestones and chapters of their life together:

“I just thought there would be more.”

That, is exactly how I felt.

Memories flashed back like a rush of wave, fast and heavy, and impossible to slow down. I thought about the first time I watched Boyhood and how I tried to picture RJ as the older versions of himself. The images were faint and barely there, but filled with a quiet longing.

Sitting in front of the TV after it shut off, the room dark but something clear in my heart. I realized this is exactly how I should feel watching a tiny baby boy grow alongside me, at his own pace and in his own way. Not slow, not fast. It is just right.

And it fits perfectly into our life.

Here I am, 13 years after trying to imagine the older version of RJ. My life has changed since becoming RJ’s mom. It continues to change in ways I cannot yet name. But I’m slowly learning not to be surprised by it or unsettled by it.

The next chapter with RJ will not look like the first thirteen years.

There will be no more first bursts of laughter, no first counting of 1, 2,3, no first bubbling of “dada,” no first pushing up to standing. And there will be a fewer moments of being needed.

But there will be more moments of being chosen.

There won’t be less. Just different. And I love all the forms and versions of him.

This time, I know I won’t hit play on Boyhood again.