I always thought my sixteen-year-old punk son was the one the world needed protecting from.
I’m thirty-eight, and I really believed I’d seen just about everything motherhood could throw at me. Vomit in my hair on picture day. Calls from the school counselor that start with “Don’t panic, but…” A broken arm from what he described as “flipping off the shed, but in a cool way.”
I have two kids. Lily is nineteen, away at college, the kind of kid teachers ask permission to use as an example. Honor roll, student council, color-coded planners.
Jax is sixteen. And he is unapologetically punk.