By Christine Koehring 
I walked into the amusement park with my son, ready for a day of proving myself as a cool mom. A day with his friends had transitioned to a morning with Mom and meeting up with friends later, but I wasn’t going to let that ruin his day. Determined to give him the fun day he’d hoped for, I offered to do whatever he wanted.
Of course, he wanted to go on a rollercoaster that would dangle me from great heights with only a lap bar between me and certain death. I’d braved the coaster for him before, but this time he wanted to go in the front row. He had done it before on his own, as I watched safely from the ground, but this time he asked me to ride with him. Hiding behind my sunglasses and a crooked smile, I agreed.
As he prepares to enter seventh grade, I know I’m in the thick of the transition where he needs me less and wants me even less than that. I know one day, requests for me to join him will disappear. I know I’m on borrowed time. But in this moment, he wanted me by his side, so who was I to say no?
Firmly buckled into the front row, I turned to look at him and saw the twinkling eyes of the little boy he had been. It’s sometimes hard to see them now that we’re practically eye to eye, with him being only one inch shorter than me. But he’s still there.
The ride launched. We laughed, we screamed, we were photographed—he with eyes wide open, arms up, ready for anything; I with eyes scrunched tight, holding on for dear life. It captured the moment on the ride, but also this moment of life. He’s so ready for this next phase, and I, having been warned by so many who have gone before me, am not.
His friend arrived, and he walked off as I stood in a daze. From the loops of the rollercoaster or this new twist of life, I’m not sure. But in that moment, I knew I was quickly demoted from “cool mom” to “less cool chaperone.”
Unlike big changes in life, I came prepared for this one. I had brought a book and steeled myself for this moment. I gave them space while staying near. I interacted only to provide ICEEs and popcorn. I let them take the lead, and I followed it.
After several hours and several more rollercoasters, his friend had to leave. I was expecting my son to be disappointed. I asked if he wanted to stay and still go on some rides, even if it was just with me. He quickly agreed, and I jokingly said, “Sweet! I’m number one again!” He turned to me, betraying the 12-year-old boy he’s become, and said, “You’re always my number one.”
It’s so easy to be number one, and know you’re number one when he’s two and needs you for every boo-boo. It’s easy when he’s five and is clinging to your hand for dear life on that long walk to the first day of kindergarten. It’s easy when he scores a goal and runs to you for hugs and snacks.
But somewhere along the line, it’s easy to forget. Worse, it’s easy to believe you’re really not number one anymore. And one day, I know I won’t be his number one. If I’m doing my job right, I’m teaching him to rely on himself, while knowing I will always, always be here if he needs me.
But I’m glad that at 12, we’re still not there. That he still needs his mom. And when he does, I’ll be right there next to him. Even when “right there” is dangling off a rollercoaster in the front row, holding on for dear life.
by Amy Martin 
by Kendra Perley 
