My 11-Year-Old Wants It All. I Want Him to Slow Down

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My 11-year-old son, Ethan, is sprawled on the couch, a plate of cheesy tater tots resting on his knees. He’s decked out in his well-worn baseball hoodie—the one he bought with his own allowance right after his beloved team snagged their second championship title. Now, living in Central California, he finds himself surrounded by kids who root for different teams, yet his loyalty remains steadfast. As he laughs at a joke from his favorite show, Fresh Off the Boat, he mindlessly scratches our dog’s ears.

Nearby, his 9-year-old brother, Jake, lounges on the dog bed. He chuckles too, but not at the same jokes. The gap between them is starting to show; Ethan is on the edge of becoming a teenager, while Jake is still blissfully in childhood.

We’re both caught in a transitional phase. I’m 35, still feeling a bit like my 18-year-old self, trying to rediscover who I am after a surprising move back to the city where my husband and I grew up. Ethan, at 11, is yearning for more—more freedom, more experiences, more everything—and he’s not keen on waiting for any of it. Our interactions tend to be filled with misunderstandings and occasional clashes.

“Mom! Mom!” he calls out, snapping me from my work. I’m juggling a deadline while helping Jake with his school project and tidying the house. My own mother is coming over soon to watch the kids.

“What is it? Is it urgent?” I reply, trying to keep the frustration out of my voice.

“This new computer I want is only—”

“No.” I’m exhausted from this conversation. It’s always something—whether it’s an iPhone or some other gadget, Ethan’s wish list seems to grow daily.

He recently had his own computer taken away for chatting with strangers online without permission. I guess he thought discussing computer parts with a service rep was harmless. He refuses to order off the kids’ menu at restaurants, yet he often leaves half his meal untouched because he’s too embarrassed to take leftovers in a brown bag after being teased.

I find myself rolling my eyes more often these days, a habit he has picked up as well. The moments we used to share, like reading together or playing games, seem to be fewer and farther between. While Jake still loves snuggling with me and diving into storytime, Ethan prefers the solitude of his room.

One day, while waiting for Jake to finish swim practice, I’m listening to a lighthearted podcast that has become my go-to for lifting my spirits. Ethan is engrossed in a book beside me. I figure he might enjoy the podcast segment, so I pull out my headphones and play it over the car speakers. As we share a laugh over a segment about song trivia, the delightful moment feels like a small bridge connecting our worlds.

Ethan comes home buzzing after visiting a STEM middle school. He’s excited about the possibility of taking classes in app development and architecture, but I know he’ll need to put in the effort to get in—something he has struggled with before. When we share the news that he’s been accepted, we celebrate with sushi; he stands a little taller, soaking in the praise and attention.

Yet, school has its ups and downs. He’s got a D in History because he didn’t complete an assignment. He often grumbles about chores and has been warned about his reactions to a classmate that can borderline on bullying. He tries to push boundaries, wearing the same shirt multiple days in a row, while I remind him about personal hygiene amidst our ongoing drought. Yet, he also shows kindness when helping his younger cousin build with Legos and surprises us by cooking dinner one evening.

As spring track season begins, Ethan and Jake come home brimming with excitement about new shoes and practice. “Do not come, Mom,” Ethan insists. But I decide to show up anyway. Watching him run, I’m amazed by the speed and grace he possesses. When the coach mentions Ethan’s talent, I can’t help but feel proud despite his usual laziness.

Later that evening, Ethan surprises me by asking for a hug, a gesture I haven’t heard in ages. It’s a reminder of the connection we still share, even amidst the chaos of growing up. He thanks me for attending practice, and I can’t help but feel hopeful.

A U2 song plays on shuffle, and I find myself tearing up as I listen to the lyrics: “Baby, slow down. The end is not as fun as the start.” I realize that while the journey can be tough, it is also filled with moments of beauty. I want Ethan to absorb this time, to embrace the awkwardness and joys of being 11, even if he doesn’t see it that way.

As he races forward into new experiences, I remind myself to slow down. I’ll capture these fleeting moments in this chaotic, often challenging, and sometimes wonderfully heartwarming stage of life—one that is as beautiful as it is messy.

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