My oldest son has always been a lover of talking. He started early and hasn’t stopped since. As he grew up, he’d talk for hours about Mario, Lego, Minecraft, Pokémon, Fortnite, school or what Johnny down the street got for his birthday. He did so with so much enthusiasm, leaving no detail out. His expressions and pitches were comical.

He’d start at 5:30am when he’d climb in bed with me.  I am convinced he was an early riser because he couldn’t wait to get up and tell me what I missed (while he slept). He wouldn’t stop talking until bedtime.

After the divorce, talking at bedtime became our thing. Perhaps his intention was to stall, or maybe hold me a little bit longer, but we would lie down and talk about everything from the events of the day to funny stories and big feelings. If there was anything on his mind, he’d save it all day until bedtime. Some evenings felt like therapy sessions.

Even up until last year, at 12 years old, that was ‘our’ time. But like so many other changes that came along with him becoming a teenager, our bedtime chats ended. Now, most nights he simply says good night, gives me a kiss and a hug, and goes off to bed. Normal for a 13-year-old boy, I suspect, but it still makes me a little sad.

Not hearing every little detail of his day makes me feel disconnected. I know what you’re thinking- that moms of teens aren’t privy to every little detail, that’s life. But that doesn’t mean I can’t miss it.

What I miss more is the car ride chatter. We used to do nothing but talk in the car. Now, for the most part, I get one-word answers. Two if I’m lucky.

In my mind, when I look in the rearview mirror, I can still see him smiling back at me from his car seat. That handsome little face has turned older and is seated next to me, looking down at a screen, his meticulously styled hair falling forward. Whatever he’s smiling at now, it’s not me.

That damn phone. I’m competing with a piece of electronics for his attention.

I ask questions in the car, trying to start a conversation, but he’s not interested. Not really. He wants to chat with friends, play games or scroll.

Recently, I asked him to put his phone away so we could chat while I drove. But he didn’t understand, and it led to an argument. What was my issue with him on the phone in the car, he wanted to know. Why did it bother me so much?

The mistake I made was assuming he knew why, so I spelled it out for him:

“I miss you. When you get in the car and I start talking, it’s like I’m talking to myself. It’s rude to have your face glued to a phone when someone is talking to you. If you want to be on your phone, that’s fine, I will just stop trying to talk to you”.

He put the phone away to appease me, then everything felt forced, so I told him to get back on it. He did but felt bad. I lied and said I didn’t mind. I turned up the radio and we drove home in silence.

There was a time, years ago, when I wished for silence. Now that I’ve got it, I realize maybe I didn’t long for it as much as I thought I did.  

Don’t get me wrong, we still talk plenty and are very close. If anything, he probably overshares, but the day-to-day conversations are different.  Gaming has become today’s version of Mario. While he may as well be speaking a foreign language to me, I listen. Just like when he was younger, no matter the topic, I listen.

Last night, at bedtime, my son asked me to lay down and chat with him, adding ‘we haven’t done this in a while’. I wanted to play cool and pretend that I hadn’t noticed, but instead I jumped on the bed and wrapped my arms around him.

When he talks, I see the boy he used to be and often find myself nostalgic, maybe even sad that things changed so much from a few shorts years ago. But the silver lining is that at his core, he’s still my little boy. Despite his age and limited use of words in the car, he still needs me.

So, I’ll be there. I’ll savor the hugs, the occasional hand hold and winks from across the room. I’ll listen to the gaming talk, and I’ll hang on every word when he has verbal diarrhea, letting out weeks of built-up sentences not spoken, in one sitting.

Our chats may no longer be reserved for bedtime and maybe the car is no longer a space we fill with big conversations either. I need to learn to be ok with that. And I will, because the most important thing is that no matter where we are, he knows he can tell me anything. No detail is too big or too small.

I remember hearing, years ago, that if you don’t listen to the little things, they’ll never tell you the big things.

No truer words ever spoken.