First Time Fuck Son

First Time Fuck Son




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Brevity: A Journal of Concise Literary Nonfiction
he is thirteen and (let’s be fair) has started testing out fuck the way a few years ago I added a dash of patriarchy to my speech until, finally, the dam broke and now if you can’t hear it, I think you probably have some work to do.
He’d said fuck when he stubbed his toe, to which I was understanding, then fuck when he won a shoe auction, to which I said hey now, then fuck on a Tuesday while discussing his favorite song, to which I said LANGUAGE and he said Ok Boomer, to which I said I’m not a Boomer, to which he said, That’s the most Boomer thing you can say, to which I said, I still have the receipts for your Christmas gifts, to which he said, Mom I love you!
Two days after Christmas, the gifts are opened, de-tagged, and non-refundable. We’re walking from our cabin in the Absaroka Range, just north of Yellowstone, in nothing but damp swimsuits and boots. It’s maybe eighteen degrees, with a thickening snow coming on, blown sideways by the kind of wind that haunts the Paradise Valley. We walk briskly—my daughter, her best friend (both of them ten), my son, and me, making small talk, cracking jokes, our muscles tense and arms crossed to hold in as much warmth as possible.
My son reaches over and pulls the hat off my head, calling me old lady, saying I can’t take the cold. Hey, I say. What the hell?
I’m stunned he’s sticking it, not apologizing the way he would have when he was ten, with long hair and an empathetic streak I had to insulate against the world. Back then, I could reprimand him silently with some well-aimed side-eye.
He looks me in the face, smiles. No.
The phrase snaps out of me—a rubber band, released: Fuck off, dude.
I say this to my son, now an inch taller than me: a full-on guy capable of kindness and meanness and everything in between.
He laughs, gives it back, unfazed, having found the line by stepping on it. He was perhaps just trying to play, like he did when he was little, his dad absent. Can we wrestle? Mom, will you wrestle? Mom? Mom? Not my bag, really. Not even my language, but I tried.
We chit-chat and banter, my glasses covered in snow slush and the springs a steam cloud in the distance. I say some crap about how you should never rummage through a lady’s someone’s bag without asking, and you should never take the hat off a man’s someone’s head. I am trying to control assert boundaries—a thing I will need to practice, I’m guessing, as the teen years barrel on, both of us thrilled, dazed, in fear of being bucked off and broken with each wild leap.
__
Melissa Stephenson’s writing has appeared in publications such as The Rumpus, ZYZZYVA, Blackbird and Fourth Genre. She recently won the Indiana Emerging Author Award for her memoir, Driven, released by Houghton Mifflin Harcourt in 2018. She lives in Missoula, Montana with her two kids. 
I raised two and even now, sometimes the younger, tests me. And I, even though he is a dad twice over, cannot help responding.
So great to read your work again Melissa. Was a big fan of your memoir Driven. My boys are now 13 and 14, just about to turn 15. Fastening my seatbelt…
Thanks so much for the fun ride, Melissa, content and form both. I’m speaking from a safe distance–both “kids” finally stepping over the 30-year-old line.
Great piece of writing. I love your first sentence. Because fuck the patriarchy, right?
Thanks for this. I had the same OK boomer conversation with my son. I said I am a Gen-Xer. He said OK boomer.
Love this! My favorite phrase, “having found the line by stepping on it” – Brilliant. The whole tone makes me smile, makes me reminiscent, makes me remember the tight-rope balance of raising a child when the dad is gone.
Oof, I needed this today, Melissa. My kid is 14. I’m printing this out as a reminder that I’m not alone in the challenge of parenting a teen. Thank you!
Yes an even though my daughters are on both coasts each with children of their own, sometimes when I am in their old rooms I can still hear slamming doors and screaming from twenty years ago.
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