My oldest son has officially reached his “tween” years. He’s not fully independent yet, but he prefers his space, gets easily disgruntled, and doesn’t want my help with things as often anymore. It can be easy to lament my transition from “mommy” to “mom” to “bruh.” Sometimes I catch myself scrolling through old pictures on my phone from just a few years back, longing to go back in time to the baby and toddler days. I completely relate to Clark Griswold, sitting up the chilly attic of his home, going through old video reels of his family’s past and wishing for a “good, old fashioned Christmas,” meanwhile feeling frustrated that his experience spending time with his family in the present isn’t quite matching up to his glowy nostalgic expectations.
Me neither, Clark.
I have all of these notions of spending quality time with my son that don’t always come to fruition. Sometimes I spend a hefty chunk of change on an activity that I think he will enjoy, but I end up having to drag him there against his will. Sometimes I think going on a family bike ride on a Sunday afternoon will feel so peaceful and refreshing, and the ride is full of stops and complaints and perhaps even minor injuries. Sometimes I think sitting and building LEGOs at the kitchen table together will be a fun bonding experience, and it ends up being frustrating and difficult. Sometimes I choose a book to share with my son that I remember loving when I was his age, and he doesn’t finish it or tells me that it’s boring.
Sometimes the best laid plans just don’t work out.
But I’ve also realized a common theme as I reflect back on my family time foibles. Oftentimes, I’m trying to build bonding time with my son by forcing him to do an activity of my choice. The obvious thought finally occurred to me: what if I spend time with my son doing something that he enjoys instead? What if I fire up the Playstation and play Fortnite with my son, letting him teach me how to play the game and work the buttons on the controller? What if I read one of his favorite graphic novels, discussing the characters and asking him questions about the story at night before he goes to bed? What if I put him in charge of deciding our Saturday afternoon plans (within reason), and we try the activity that he wants to do? What if our bonding time becomes less about me trying to recreate my own childhood with my son and more about meeting him where he is?
And so here I sit, on a chilly winter day, perusing the Fortnite shop with my oldest, learning the difference between a standard character skin and a Battle Pass reward, being launched from a Battle Bus and almost immediately being defeated by a random 12-year-old on the internet somewhere. My son laughs at me and calls me a slang word I don’t understand, but I think this counts as bonding.