Adult Children

Let him sleep

Posted on by New At This

That boy, asleep on the couch, is my son. He just finished a grueling ten weeks at Basic Training, the festivities of Family Day, the pomp and ceremony of Graduation. He was tired, with a level of exhaustion that he had never experienced before in his young life. For the first time in two and a half months, he could be at rest without worrying that someone was watching for him to screw up, he could take a deep breath, he could relax. And he could sleep.

In the two and a half months he was gone, we got a total of seven minutes of conversation. I had spent 36 hours in a (very small) car to be there. I stood in line to get a seat in the bleachers, waited for hours in the sun, to bear witness to the accomplishment he had achieved. When I was finally able to find him, mixed in amongst the 1,400 other camouflaged soldiers, the clock began ticking. He was to report back to the barracks at 19:30. We had a total of ten hours of free time ahead of us. He had a checklist of things he wanted to do, and most of it revolved around eating and spending money. Day two began in much the same way, waiting in line, vying for the best seat, trying to pinpoint him in a block of soldiers with identical uniforms and haircuts. And another countdown until he had to report back, once again, to a drill sergeant. We had fun; we shopped, bowled, played pool and Galaga and board games, ate pizza and Chinese takeout and so much junk food. But by 17:00 on that second day, he was tired, and all he wanted to do was nap. And so, still in his dress blues, he stretched out on the couch in a crowded hotel room and slept.

I was so very aware of the minutes ticking away, before I would have to drop him off again, knowing that we would be separated by thousands of miles and months of training before I would see him again. I was reminded of all the times, when the span of his life was still measured in hours and days, and he was lying in a bassinet sound asleep. The wonder surrounding this new child was so profound that more than anything, I wanted to wake him up, so that I could begin to learn everything there was to know about who he was going to be someday. But the best advice I ever received when I became a mother was “do not try to make a sleeping child happier” and so, I let him sleep.

I am learning that the relationship a mother has with her grown children is very different than the one we had when they were growing up. I am more than a friend, but less than a parent and we are still finagling with where the boundaries are supposed to be in this new world. I am not afraid that I have failed to do a good job as a parent. I did the best I could with what I had. I always knew that raising my children to be self-sufficient was the goal we were working toward. No, my biggest fear is that I have done my job too well. What if, while teaching them to stand on their own two feet, I also taught them not to include me in their lives?

These are the adjustments I was not prepared for when my children became adults. When something good happens to my kids, I want them to think “I have to tell my mom.” When something not good happens, I want them to think “I need to call my mom.” I want them to introduce me to their friends and include me in their celebrations and seek me out for comfort and support when things are hard. I want to be invited into their lives. But I don’t know where the line is. I want to let them be independent, let them choose their own adventures, without being clingy or overbearing. It is so very hard to be standing on the outside of the door, knocking where I used to enter freely, waiting for the door to open, hoping to be welcomed.

I know what I hope for in the relationships I will have with my grown children. I don’t yet know what they want. I am afraid to ask them that question because I am also afraid that I won’t like the answer. Everyday, I am learning to accept that there will be chapters in their stories that I may never get to read. I don’t worry less about where they are and what they are doing, now that they are adults. But I am learning to worry quietly, to keep the anxieties to myself, to make peace with ambiguity about their well being.

In that moment, I wanted to talk to him. I wanted to tell him how proud I was, how much I have missed him. I wanted to hear all the stories of the adventures he had been on, the friends he had made, the goals he had accomplished. I wanted to fill, with words, the void his absence had left in my home. I wanted to feel like I was still a part of his life, now that he is living a life without me in it every day. I wanted to lay the foundation for a new relationship that spans time and distance to keep us close. I wanted to reassure myself. But you can’t make a sleeping child any happier than they already are, and I want him to be happy. So, I let him sleep.

Chaos and Magic and Growing Up

Posted on by New At This

Back in the 90’s there was this cool (weird?) fad that became popular – the “Magic Eye” stereo-gram poster. The posters themselves were chaotic, somewhat awkward and ugly (and by somewhat I mean seriously, “Why would you hang that in your room” ugly), but if you stared at the chaos long enough, in just the right way, a cool, hidden, 3D image of something would pop off the page. Trust me, this was not the weirdest thing about the 90’s but it happened, so…whatever. The reason I bring up those posters is that you could stare at the same poster a dozen times and never see that 3D image. Then suddenly one day, your focus would shift and BAM, like magic, there it was; from that point on, every time you looked at it, you would see what had been right in front of you all along.

The beginning of October I took a road trip with my middle child, who is my oldest boy child, who also happens to be old enough to buy his own beer now. (If you want to bond with your adult children, I do not recommend spending 36 straight hours in a Ford Focus. Around hour 31 you start to notice how weirdly your travel companion breathes and WHY ARE YOU BREATHING SO OFTEN. Minor irritations are magnified when you have been trapped together in a car for that long.)

We were cruising down the interstate in the middle of North Carolina. I was behind the wheel and the boy was riding shotgun. There was music playing, small talk happening, it was just a regular moment, almost exactly like the 1,478 moments that had elapsed since we set out the day before. This moment was absolutely nothing special. Until.

I remember glancing to my right, to check a mirror, or observe the scenery, or something inane. I just glanced to right, the same way I had multiple times in the last 1,611 miles, and I noticed my son sitting beside me. Only this time, for the first time, he wasn’t a boy.

I have been looking at my son almost every day for all of his life. I can’t say that we are besties, but we have a good relationship, and even before he moved back in (that’s a different story) he was not opposed to stopping at mom’s house to grab some free food and use my laundry facilities. I know he is a grown up. I mean, I KNOW this. He is a member of a National Guard unit and spends one weekend a month, two weeks every summer, soldiering with heavy machinery and lots of weaponry. He buys his own alcohol and owns his own arsenal. The point is, I have had a few years to accept the fact that my baby is not a baby anymore.

But. But…when I look at him, he is a stereogram picture of an adult. I still see a lifetime of little boy moments: The excitement of Christmas morning; bright eyes staring in wonder at a new baby brother; tear stained face after a girl broke his heart. A lifetime of little boy memories crafted into the picture of him I carry in my heart.

When I saw him, from the corner of my eye, in the middle of that long road trip, I did not see the little boy giggles and awkward teenage angst. I finally saw what had been hiding amongst the chaos of colors and shapes I had been staring at for years. My boy is a man now. I see it, in the strength of his jawline and the weight of responsibility he has chosen to bear upon his shoulders. It lies naturally across his unshaved cheeks, covered in the stubble of two days travel.

Years ago, I dreamed that someday, my son would be a good man. Today, I see the man he has become and I know he has already exceeded my wildest dreams. This boy has taken pieces of childhood and crafted a man of honor, integrity, and humor much greater than the man my limited imagination could have conceived, the day he was first laid in my arms. The courage, determination, and compassion with which he approaches the world is nothing I was brave enough to imagine for him. I do not have the right words to explain the pride I feel when I see the man he has become. Like a 3D image, magically revealed within the chaos of a stereogram poster, I will never be able to “unsee” the man who has emerged from the memories of a little boy. Trust me, when you see it you will wonder how you ever missed it, because the transformation is magic.