A boy and his mother walk into Macy’s. The lanky lad, who looks to be about 15, walks a few paces ahead. Although they share similar facial features, their expressions are vastly different.

The look he throws about says, “Let’s just get this over with.”

Hers says, “We haven’t spent time together in awhile. This is kind of nice.”

I watch them intently. It is the winter of 2002. My little boy is 6 months old. I find myself seeking out and studying the dynamics between mothers and sons. No matter the age or life stage of the parties, their interactions fascinate me.

Within a few seconds, the skulking young man is navigating through the women’s section and moving toward the escalator. His mother silently follows. Then she sees a brightly colored sweater. She stops a second to admire the sweater, to touch the material before she calls out to him.

Upon hearing his name, the boy stops in his step, rolls his eyes, then turns around and walks back to his mom.

“What do you think of this sweater?” she asks, holding it to her shoulders. “I really like this color.”

“Whatever mom. I don’t care.” He uses an irritable tone, emphasizing the last three words. He starts to slowly walk away.

She winces at the remark. She hangs her head as she slowly puts the sweater back on the rack. She gives it a final smoothing then walks quickly to catch up with her son.

The “weary breastfeeding mother who’s neck-deep in diapers” in me is tempted to grab him by the shoulders and admonish him. I want to point out the injustice he’s done to his mother. I want to command him to respect her. I want to point out the sacrifices she’s made, the nights she’s comforted him, the meals she’s fed him and the countless little things she’s done for him to show her love.

I’ve thought of that memory alot as the years have passed. As the relationship between Seth and me slowly changes, my perspective of that incident evolves as well.  Now, I see this boy’s actions as something less personal. He is, in an incredibly awkward and painful way, trying to assert his independence. He aspires to be his own man. While he does not want to need his mother, she knows he still does.

I hope his mother, after a few minutes, realized that his indifference wasn’t really about her. I hope she realized he was in the middle of uncharted territory with limited life experience. He was dealing with this separation process the only way he knew. He didn’t stop to think about his actions or how this process affects his mother. But, to be honest, how many of us at that age have?

I may be completely wrong in my theories. I’ve never mothered a teen boy, nor have I been one so really, what do I know? I write this in case I’m right. Because I hope that in 10 years, I can remember “its not personal” myself.