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	teen voices

Waiting Up
By Kathryn E. Livingston
Web Exclusive

It is 1 a.m. on a Sunday morning-- and I'm waiting up for my teenage son, who was supposed to be home at midnight. I find myself oddly uncomfortable in this role, thinking back to the nights when my father or mother waited up for me, remembering how often I deceived them about my whereabouts, and how little they really knew about what I was doing.

My son has been keeping me up since the day he was born--first as a colicky, fretting infant, and later as a stubborn toddler who refused to go to sleep at night without hours of cajoling. How far away this night seemed then, when he was two and demanding another story, or four and five and wishing to continue playing, or even ten or eleven and immersed in yet another video game.

But 16 and out in the world (allegedly at a friend's house) until 1:15 (for yes, it is now 1:15 a.m.) is not the same as a child in his home but out of his bed for whatever silly reason, and I am beginning to wonder if I should have called the friend's parents, and then the police, an hour ago. I have read, recently, in the newspaper of a teenager who disappeared for four days, only to turn up later at a bus station in another state, his parents worried nearly to death. I am beginning to wonder if I should be phoning and searching, even though my rational voice (the very same voice that once assured me his fever would go down, or that his small form was indeed still breathing), tells me I know exactly where my son is, and that he has simply lost track of the time, and will be home safe and sound at any moment.

But at 1:30, I'm beginning to panic, and because my husband is away on a camping trip with our younger son, I can not even turn to him for advice or solace. I sit by the window, staring down our hill, praying I will spot his adolescent shadow under the street lamps. The street is empty, and quiet; and my heart is as heavy and still as the day he was three, and needed to be rushed to the emergency room for stitches. I am astounded and amazed at how keenly I feel that same sense of panic and terror--years and years later, as profound as the fear and love I felt when my eyes first met his piercing newborn gaze. I had expected this love to wane and wander, to feel less intensely the connection. But at l:30 a.m. on Saturday night, I find that my love for my child is just as intensely brilliant as it was on the day he was born, as it was for all the years I nursed and held him, or walked him to school, or tucked him into bed.

The realization is not comforting, for I've been told it's the task of the teen to separate from the parent, and conversely-- I assume-- the goal of the parent to step back from the teen. But in the early morning hours when I can not see or sense him, I know that I have not--and possibly, will never--feel content when he's not near and safe.

I rise to pace, deciding to pick up the phone and call the friend's house, no matter the hour, when I hear his key in the door. My heart skips a beat, and I wait patiently as he enters, any anger I feel melting into grateful relief, just as it did when he reappeared from around a corner when riding his bike at age nine, or popped out from under the clothing racks in a store at four. The mere sight of him--in one piece, unharmed--is all I need.

Instead of screaming with anger or whining tearfully (both options I'd considered in his absence) I repeat the words of advice from psychologists I've read, explaining to my son that if he's going to be late he needs to phone me because I'm very worried.

His response is agreeable, non combative, and I know I've made the right choice. In the morning, I will reiterate my message, reminding him again that parents worry, that we need to know, that it's only fair to meet your curfew, and if you must be late, to call.

After all, he can't yet understand how deep the fear of waiting goes-- how parents wonder and fantasize and concoct all kinds of horrid scenarios based in part on their own past lives, or on news reports, or statistics. Waiting up is a parent's task; the teenager's task is to learn and live--even if that occasionally means coming home late and facing the consequences.

I don't relish my new role, and yet there is--along with fear , anger, and a sense of forgiveness and relief as my son enters the door-- the same pride and love I've felt since the day he was born. My years of experience as a mother have imbued my anguish with the comforting knowledge that waiting up is just another phase in the way children and parents are meant to grow together-and apart.

Kathryn E. Livingston, the mother of three boys, has written for many magazines and is the co-author of The Secret Life of the Dyslexic Child Rodale, 2002