What My Son Has Taught Me (Besides the Names of Every Construction Vehicle)

by MacKenzie Shelton

My son is four years old, which means I’ve been someone’s mom for four years. That’s about the length of college, and honestly, I feel like I’ve earned a degree—maybe not in anything accredited, but definitely in emotional multitasking, emergency snack sourcing, and deciphering feelings expressed entirely through foot-stomps and dinosaur roars.

Before I had a son, I had this vague idea of what parenting would be like. I pictured myself reading books aloud in a sun-drenched room, probably while drinking tea, probably while my child quietly colored nearby. What I did not picture was crouching on a sidewalk in the rain while my son explained the difference between an excavator and a backhoe in great detail—or finding myself genuinely interested.

That’s the thing no one tells you about parenting a little boy: they come with a whole world in their heads. And if you’re lucky, they’ll let you in.

Learning Who He Really Is

At first, it was all instinct. Feed, hold, soothe, repeat. Those early baby days are so physical and immediate. But as he grew, I realized that raising a child isn’t just about keeping them safe or getting them to sleep—it’s about learning who they are. Not who you expected, not who you planned for, but the actual person standing in front of you wearing Lightning McQueen socks and peanut butter on their face.

My son is loud. He is wild in the best way. He feels everything fully, from joy to fury, and I’ve had to learn how to meet him in those big feelings without trying to shrink them. I’ve also had to learn not to take everything personally. When a four-year-old screams “I don’t love you anymore” over a broken cracker, it’s not about you. It’s about the cracker.

Over time, I’ve learned to recognize the signs that he’s about to lose it. The quick breaths, the fidgety hands, the faraway look that means his brain is processing faster than his body can keep up. And I’ve learned that if I can stay calm (even when I don’t feel calm), I can help him through it. He doesn’t need me to fix every feeling. He needs to know I’m there while he feels it.

Finding Our Common Ground

When people talk about “boy moms,” they often mention roughhousing or sports or wrestling in the living room. That’s never really been me. I’m not great at pretend battles or truck noises. But I’ve learned that connecting with my son doesn’t mean turning into a mini version of him—it means being curious about what lights him up.

That’s how I ended up knowing all the names of construction vehicles, and why I now have opinions about which monster trucks have the best designs. I’ve also developed a shocking interest in snakes. Not enough to want one in my house, but enough to point out garter snakes on walks and pretend not to flinch when he gets very close to them.

And he, in turn, has gotten into some of my interests. He likes baking with me, even if most of what he does is “quality control” (read: licking batter). He asks me to read the same books I loved as a kid, and he tells me my stories are funny even when they aren’t. We’ve carved out our little zones of overlap, and it feels like building a secret club made just for the two of us.

My son has taught me more about patience than any self-help book ever could. He’s taught me to slow down, to see the wonder in small things—a bug on a leaf, the sound of a garbage truck, the “magic” of a light turning red. He’s reminded me that curiosity doesn’t always need a purpose, and that asking “why?” five times in a row is actually a form of connection, not defiance.

He’s also taught me something deeper: that love isn’t always soft. Sometimes love is showing up, even when you're tired. It’s staying steady when your child is falling apart. It’s apologizing when you mess up and letting them see you try again. Love is messy and repetitive and very, very real.

And as much as I’m raising him, he’s raising me too. He’s shaping me into someone stronger, more thoughtful, more grounded. Someone who sees the world through both adult eyes and tiny, curious ones.

The Beautiful Unknown Ahead

He’s four, which means the world is still mostly about snacks and questions and bedtime battles. But I know that will change. One day, he won’t tell me everything. He won’t need me to hold his hand crossing the street. He might even roll his eyes at me (okay, that’s probably sooner than later). But I hope he always knows that I took the time to know him—not just guide him, but see him.

And in return, I hope he always sees me too. Not just as Mom, the lunch-packer and boundary-setter, but as someone who was paying attention. Someone who didn’t try to turn him into something else but stood beside him as he figured out who he was.

Four years in, I’ve learned that raising a son isn’t about molding him into the perfect little gentleman or curbing his wildness. It’s about learning to dance with it. It’s about teaching kindness without squashing confidence. It’s about being surprised, every day, by who he is and who I get to become because of him.

And it’s about always keeping an eye out for construction zones—both literal and metaphorical.