The Hoodie...

The hoodie.  For most, it's a simple hooded sweatshirt, for others it's a fashion statement.  Worn as a trendy accessory it can complete the ensemble, providing a touch of warmth when the weather gets brisk. Just a simple hooded sweatshirt, it can give the wearer a sense of comfort on dark and lazy days.  Or, it can convey a sense of sneakiness, concealing the wearer who may be up to no good.

And then there are the necessity hoodies.  When the lights, sounds, and chaos of the day gets overwhelming, the hoodie is a place of refuge.  An instant barrier from the crazy, like an invisible fortress surrounding them, keeping them focused when the world insists on distraction.

Youngest's hoodie was a necessity hoodie. His sensory overload often caused anxiety, which lead to melt downs, aggression and running away, daily and often.  When he was in second grade, during one of his toughest years, his teacher gave him one of her son's hand me down sweatshirts.  The hood went up, and the rest is history.  It became his tell when he was teetering on the edge of crazy or when he was highly focused.  There he would sit, in his tiny desk, hood up, writing away hand gripped around a fat pencil slowly forming a story all his own. In middle school it became his invisible bubble, allowing him to move through the halls, without incident, among the hundreds of other kids during the three minute window.

High School came and the hood was down more often than not.  He found his own way among friends, and made a place for himself without barriers.  He has about 6 different hoodies that he wears regularly.  Some he's gotten as gifts. There's a short sleeve and a no sleeve for the gym. And there's the wrestling Sectional Championship one that has his name on the back, commemorating his 2nd place finish. He wore that one for Senior pictures.  About 8 months ago we were discussing something and as his frustration grew he sighed deep and threw his hood up for the first time in years.

I laughed.  He had had enough.  It was his tell, and I left him alone.

Now, it's his senior year.  We fight more than we talk.  The lines of appropriateness are gone.  He's trying to find his way, not making the best choices, but making enough of the *good* ones to keep him afloat. The stress of college, poor choices, and questionable friends have put a tremendous strain on our relationship.  His seventeen year old conviction of invincibility makes him very hard to live with and I find myself walking on egg shells not knowing if the grenade is coming from a blindside or if he'll hear me and just walk away. The husband is done. His brother has distanced himself.  I am left with a giant hole in my soul.

Parenthood, my friends, is not for sissies.

I used to hate when he'd shut down and hide under the hood. He could hide for hours, immovable in his stubborn ways.  But he'd always emerge. Now I long for the visual que, the subtle but deliberate flip of the hood, even though deep down I know his proverbial hood is always up.

And all I can do is pray he emerges from underneath it undamaged by the choices he's made.