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I was surrounded by boxes. Boxes of decorations that still needed to be unpacked, boxes of holiday cards that still needed to be written, boxes of gifts to be wrapped and mailed. And there was my 13-year-old son, nearly as tall as me, standing in the doorway while I surveyed the chaos and contemplated how many days there were until Christmas.
"Hey, Mama. Do you want to go to Starbucks, just the two of us?"
There was so much still to be done and only a few weekend hours left to do it. But I looked at my son, whose face had started to look more like a young adult's than a little kid's, and I said, "Sure, baby, why not?"
I don't know how it happened so fast, but I have two teenage sons. Thinking back on their little kid Christmases, filled with toys, games, and stuffed animals, I remember the whirlwind of excitement — and exhaustion. I knew they wouldn't always believe in Santa Claus (or wake me up before dawn to open their presents), but it still felt like those magical years would stretch on forever.
This Christmas, though, they're 13 and 15, and their gift requests have shifted from PAW Patrol and Transformers to clothes, tech, and — most unexpectedly — my time.
They don't typically ask for my time outright. If I'm not paying attention or I hesitate too long, the moment will slip away, and they'll move on to something else — usually something that involves a screen, a group chat, and a world to which I'm decidedly not invited.
But every now and then, they let me in. For my 13-year-old, it might look like a quick trip to Starbucks, where we order our favorite drinks, and he fills me in on the latest eighth-grade drama. Or it might be him helping me bake a batch of my "famous" gingersnaps while rattling off information he's accumulated over the course of a school week: what car his friend's dad drives, trivia about the newest roller coaster at Walt Disney World, or how his English teacher knew Bruce Springsteen growing up. For the past two months, it's been an occasional request to run lines with him as he studies his role as Colonel Mustard. Last fall, it was getting up early on vacation to watch the sunrise with me.
My 15-year-old is more low-key because he's an introvert like me. His requests for my time often sneak up on me — and they don't always involve much talking. He might sit down unannounced to watch 20 minutes of an old "Grey's Anatomy" episode with me, tossing in a wry comment about the characters' questionable life choices or the episode's unlikely disaster. Or, like last weekend, he might surprise me by coming home from a friend's house and launching into a detailed account of their "Dungeons and Dragons" campaign, his face lighting up as he recounts every plot twist. On rare occasions, he'll call me into the office to show me what he's doing in 3D computer graphics — a skill he's learned entirely on his own — while I marvel at his creativity.
Giving my time to my teens isn't something I can wrap in a bow — and they'd absolutely roll their eyes in disgust if I offered them anything as cutesy as coupons for "Time With Mama." But it's the one gift they (sometimes) genuinely want. Not when it's convenient for me, but when they're ready: when they're stressed, excited, overwhelmed, or simply in the mood to share a moment, or an hour, of their life with me.
Setting aside whatever I'm doing to give them my full attention is as much a gift for me as it is for them. These aren't big, shiny moments — they're quiet, fleeting ones. But being able to give my teens my time is a reminder to myself to slow down and appreciate this life I get to share with them. They're memories I can savor as these teenage years fly by — and moments I hope they'll hold on to when they head off to college and, eventually, into busy lives of their own.
This year, there won't be a mountain of overpriced and unwanted presents under the tree, but there will be time. As much as they want, whenever I can give it. And while I sometimes miss those chaotic Christmases of early childhood, I know I will look back on these quieter days with my teens just as fondly.
