Raising my teenage son feels like dating a boy who’s out of my league

From clingy toddler to cool teen: I miss being the centre of his universe.

Once upon a time, I couldn’t even go to the toilet without his company. Now I’m lucky if I get a side hug and a grunt.

For the first decade or so of his life, my son and I were a certified duo. My little bestie. My shadow. My emotionally-attached, cuddle-hungry, Lego-brained ride or die. While other toddlers threw themselves into social groups like pint-sized politicians, mine was a one-man wolf pack - quiet, observant, thoughtful. But he was mine. And I got him.

As he got taller (and taller… and then somehow taller again), I stayed his person.

When well-meaning strangers stopped him in the street to comment on his height - “You’ll be a basketballer!” “How tall ARE you?!” “How’s the air up there?” - he’d shrink beside me. He doesn’t like attention. Still doesn’t. The canteen lady at school regularly tells him he should be a model. His response? He avoids the canteen entirely. That’s commitment to the bit.

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"My little bestie was always by my side". Source: Supplied

But somewhere in the last couple of years, something shifted.

He’s 16 now. And while I know he’s happy - he’s got great mates, a part-time job, and the kind of hoots and hollers coming from his room that prove teenage boys are actually part-goose - I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss him a bit. Or at least, the version of him who used to openly adore me.

These days, I feel like I’m trying to date a boy way out of my league.

He’s aloof. Cool. Impossible to read. When I drop him at work, he launches out of the car like it’s on fire just in case I, God forbid, walk beside him in public. When I ask him how his day was, I get a shrug. When I make a joke, he sometimes smirks - and let me tell you, those crumbs? They’re my gold. I’ve never worked harder for a lukewarm laugh in my life.

I’ve started doing things I swore I wouldn’t. Like laughing just a bit too hard at his jokes in hopes he’ll stick around. Casually mentioning songs I know he likes just to seem “cool adjacent.” Once, I even pretended not to notice that he hadn’t answered me just so I wouldn’t seem clingy. I am essentially flirting with my own child for crumbs of connection. If this were a romantic situation, my friends would stage an intervention.

There are moments - brief, shining moments - when the cool-guy mask slips. Usually when his sister tells a story that makes him laugh, and he chimes in, and suddenly we’re all just hanging out, laughing together. In those moments, he’s there again. Warm, cheeky, hilarious. And then poof - back to one-word answers and AirPods.

RELATED: Parenting teens: balancing responsibility and independence

He’s just not that into me: Loving my aloof teenage son like he’s a boy I’m trying to date. Source: Supplied

Am I mumming wrong?

I see other mums on Instagram posting selfies with their teen sons - arms draped around each other, smiling, captions like “my best friend forever” - and I think, WTH? Did I miss a memo? Am I the only one who has to fight for scraps of emotional intimacy like a woman on a third date hoping he’ll finally ask a follow-up question?

But then I see the reels. You know the ones - a mum sitting very still on the couch because her teenage son casually slung an arm around her, and if she breathes wrong, the spell will break. That’s my people. The don’t-move-or-he’ll-realise-he’s-cuddling-me tribe.

I know he loves me. I do. I see it in the small things. Like how, at family dinners or big gatherings, he always ends up beside me. He doesn’t say much, but I know he’s there because I’m his safe space - the buffer between him and enthusiastic relatives who ask ten rapid-fire questions when all he wants is to sink into the wall behind him.

I don’t tell him that I notice. But I do. Every time.

I see how gentle he is with his siblings. How ridiculous he is with his friends. How hard he works at his job. I hear the belly laughs through the wall when he’s gaming with his mates, and it makes me smile - even if I’m not in on the joke anymore.

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I miss being his whole world. But I love that he’s building one of his own.

So yeah, maybe I’m not his bestie anymore. Maybe I’m the slightly embarrassing woman who drops him off at work and dares to speak to him in public. But I’m still his safe place. His home base. And that’s more than enough.

And if he ever chooses to sling his arm around me again on the couch, don’t worry - I won’t move a muscle. I’ll sit there like a woman trying not to scare off a wild animal. It's a very fragile vibe, but I'll take it.

Originally published as Raising my teenage son feels like dating a boy who’s out of my league