I always thought my 16-year-old punk son was the one who needed protecting from the world, until one freezing night, a park bench across the street, and a knock at our door the next morning completely changed the way I saw him.
I'm 38 years old and I really thought I'd seen it all as a mother.
Vomit in my hair on picture day. Calls from the school counselor. A broken arm from "jumping off the shed roof, but in a cool way." If there was a mess, I probably cleaned it up.
My youngest son, Jax, is 16 years old.
I have two children.
Lily is 19 years old, she's at university, she's on the honor roll, she's part of the student council, she's the kind of girl you ask: "Can we use your essay as an example?"
My youngest, Jax, is 16 years old.
And Jax is... a punk.
Not a "slightly alternative" punk. A full-fledged punk.
He is sarcastic, loud, and much more intelligent than he lets on.
Spiked bright pink hair. Shaved sides. Lip and eyebrow piercings. A leather jacket that smells of gym bag and cheap deodorant. Combat boots. Band t-shirts with skulls on them that I pretend not to read.
He's sarcastic, loud, and much smarter than he lets on. He pushes boundaries just to see what happens.
Everywhere he goes, people stare at him.
At school, the children whisper. The parents look him up and down and give me a strained smile, like, "Well... that's his way of expressing himself."
"Kids like that always end up getting into trouble."
I hear:
"You're just letting him out like that?"
"He looks... aggressive."
And even: "Kids like that always end up in trouble."
I always give the same answer.
He keeps the doors open.
All I need to do to discourage people from talking about him is:
"He's a good boy."
Because it's true.
He holds the doors open. He pets all the dogs. He makes Lily laugh on FaceTime when she's stressed. He hugs me as he walks by and pretends nothing's wrong.
But I'm still worried.
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