My Oldest Son Thinks He's My Co-Parent Because I'm A Single Mom

My oldest son was nine years old – but acted 35 – when I became a single mom. “Wise beyond his years” was the way he was described by every adult who knew him. When I told him and his little brother that we were separating, that we were moving two hours away and they would be starting school in a new town, he watched me with his serious eyes. He watched to see how I was feeling before he reacted. He wanted to know how to feel as I watched his face for signs of how he really felt. So careful, my little boy, so aware of who he might upset or what might be needed of him.

This is the moment that I made a pact with myself and to him that I would not let him grow up too fast because of me. He had an innate need to be the man of the house, even before my ex and I separated. When his little brother was born, he’d rush home from school kicking off his shoes and rushing to see “his” baby first thing. Curling up beside him for hours to watch him sleep, to whisper to him, to love him. “Why does he always want you, doesn’t he know I’m the one who is his big brother?” he asked me once, wishing desperately that he could be the one to soothe the baby’s tears instead of me.

I’ve always loved this about him, his tender heart, his protective nature. But, as an oldest child myself, I also knew this could hurt him in the long run. I, too, had wanted to grow up so fast and become a mom and so I grew up too fast and became a mom. I did not want this for my son. I wanted his little shoulders to stay loose, his face to relax. And when I eventually did leave my marriage, I certainly did not want my 9-year-old son to become my co-parent.

Little did I know, this would be a battle between us for quite some time.

Because my son wanted to be in charge. When I cooked dinner for us all at night, he was the one reminding them not to eat until I was sitting with them. He wanted to help them with their homework, wanted to walk them to school by himself once they were old enough. He wanted to tell them to clean their room, to say “thank you” when they forgot, to be nice, to be kind. All good things, but not his things. I reminded him all the time that he was not a parent, that he was not in charge. And there he would stand, watching me with his serious eyes. Not saying anything but deeply believing that I was wrong. That he could be in charge a little bit too. That we were in this together.

In some ways, I think he was a little bit right. We have always been in this together. There is a photo of us from the early days after I left my marriage where we are posing under a tree I sit with my youngest on my lap, my two middle boys beside me. And my oldest stands behind me, tall and straight, chin up, his hands protectively on my shoulders. It is simply in him to be this person. I think he relished his role as the Big Boy, the protector of the family. I think he wanted us to be in it together.

And so I eventually gave in a bit. I accepted his help sometimes. I did it because I wanted to honor the boy he was but also, if I’m being brutally honest, I really needed the help. The little partner, much as I’m horrified to admit it. When my back gave out and I was confined to my bed for a few days, I don’t know what I would have done without him. He was 13 at the time, he brought me tea and oatmeal and the remote control. I apologized for my uselessness over and over, seeing past his face that glowed with satisfaction and pride.

He was happy to be in charge. Happy to help. Happy to be in this family with me and with the little brothers he treasured. I still reined him in on occasion when he got too bossy. I still had to remind him that he was not, in fact, actually in charge of the family. That he was a child and needed to go outside and play and relax.

But other times, I just accepted him as the lovely person who wanted to help. And felt grateful, every single day, that he was my boy.

Jen McGuire is a contributing writer for Romper and Scary Mommy. She lives in Canada with four boys and teaches life writing workshops where someone cries in every class. When she is not traveling as often as possible, she’s trying to organize pie parties and outdoor karaoke with her neighbors. She will sing Cher’s “If I Could Turn Back Time” at least once, but she’s open to requests.