The Moment of Letting Go

Since his wee years, I have enveloped my fifteen year old in the wonderful world of literature.  Summertime was no exception.  He would participate in the library summer reading program, despite the fact that we rarely, if ever, used the physical rewards from it.  (We kind of always forgot.)

As he entered fourth and fifth grades, this became more of a struggle.  It was more forced, less of a partnership.  Yet I knew he had to read over the summer to keep that continuity flowing.

We started to have the conversation this summer about what he was going to read, and, in his inimitable way, he just glared at me.  

"Can't I just have the summer off?" he asked.  "I read a lot of things this year."

And I paused.

Can't he?  The kid raked in a 4.0.  Is it about him anymore, or about the need to feel like my motherly duties are fulfilled?

So, I'm officially backing off.  After 15 years.  After reading to this kid in the womb (oh, yes I did).  He got many things from me, one of which is the lack of fondness for recreational reading, yet the ability to still call myself "literate."  And so it goes.