Love and learn

A good love affair, like a good script, has to have some drama in it. This is just one of the lessons my son the filmmaker learned recently when his first real romantic relationship dissolved as his 16th summer was wrapping up.

For eight months, his father and I watched as our formerly self-centered boy dutifully called her when he said he would. We watched him prepare a candlelight dinner on the fire escape for their six-month anniversary (who knew he could cook?) We were even consulted on the selection of a claddagh ring to help advertise his devotion to her.

When he arrived home six hours late one day, we were understanding when he said they had walked home to Tribeca along the Hudson River from 59th Street, watching the sun set. He told us we “should do that sometime,” not realizing that anyone else had ever watched a sunset with someone they loved.

We also watched him ignore old friends, develop a new, uncharacteristic interest in team sports (hers) and plumb new depths academically.

Her parents became his parents as we became hers. They only needed to ask once to get him to do the dishes, but none of us could get him to keep his cell phone charged.

Although he racked up the minutes calling her, we could never seem to find him when we wanted to. On our family trip to the Grand Canyon, he shared his first impressions with her via cell phone. We finally had to upgrade our calling plan when the overage charge threatened to exceed our winter heating bill.

My son is a good boyfriend, I learned. It was hard to chastise him for interrupting his studies to make a call when he said, “I promised to call at 10:00 p.m., Mom, and I can’t break my promise.” I was counting the times a boy had made that promise to me and left it unfulfilled.

When we drove her to camp this summer, I thought I saw it coming. She was a little too eager to say good-bye; he was a little too quiet. The day she returned, they broke up. Something about having “nothing in common.”

For a parent, a child’s first love is filled with trepidation. You’re as afraid of the break-up as you are of the alternative. I’m told there are teenagers who are sensible about love and life, but I never was so I find it hard to believe.

In the weeks before my son’s break-up, I would not have been surprised to find a note on the door saying they’d eloped. Horrified, but not surprised. But I was more sure the end would come crashing in when we least expected.

When it did, the rest of the family seemed as affected as he was, maybe more. My husband, recalling his own pain at that age, took care to be available to him. His sister burst into tears when she heard the news, so concerned about her brother’s feelings.

As it turned out, he didn’t need much comforting from us. After one day alone in the city, he connected with old friends again. A welcome party of teenaged girls surrounded him with affection when he came up to the bungalow on the bus. Soon, the e-mails were flying and he found himself a hot topic of teenage discourse.

Treading the path lightly, I asked few questions, but listened attentively. Without prompting one day, he said, “I learned something, Mom. I don’t have to be so careful with people—they can take care of themselves.” It must have been something she said. Maybe she felt his attention was suffocating.

When the relationship was first beginning, I remember telling him to be sure to think of her feelings. I should have reminded him to think of his own, too. Love and learn.