parenting

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.

The other side of the finish line.

Posted on by New At This

photo of woman running on fishing line

Photo by RUN 4 FFWPU on Pexels.com

I have never run a race. I am not a runner. If you see me running, you should run too because something is definitely wrong. But I know a couple runners. I don’t understand them, but I know them. And (I think) I understand what drives them to get to the finish line, because I am a mother.

For decades I heard comparisons between getting your children safely to “Grown Up” as getting to the finish line. I used that comparison myself. It seemed appropriate, at the time. When passing classes during senior year seemed like too much effort, I told my children “You can’t quit now, the finish line is right there.” When a friend, with two boys in their final years of high school, decided to have another child I told her “you were almost at the finish line and you turned around and started over.” Parenting felt like this race to the end, my child being my running partner, and the goal was to cross that finish line, clearly marked by a graduation and an eighteenth birthday party.

When my oldest child crossed that line, it was an accomplishment. We were running partners, but our relationship was not great. We had struggled; we fought, sometimes tooth and nail. There were threats to give up, and bribes to keep going. But finally, we made it. We did it. It was a long, arduous race, yet we ran it all the way to the end, by golly. But I was still in the middle of that race with my other children, so I kept running.

With my middle child, it was an easy victory. My middle child is much more laid-back than my oldest, this was ground we had covered before so we didn’t have as many of the pitfalls of that first race over uncharted territory. We knew the path to take, and we ran alongside each other at a more relaxed pace. That race was a challenge but not a trial. And I was still in it, with one more child, one more race to finish.

And the day my youngest and I crossed that finish line for the last time, it was not what I expected. I expected pride, which I got in spades. My children have all grown into amazing humans. I expected relief, accomplishment, and joy. And that was there too. This phase of their lives was successfully checked off and they could move on to bigger, better things. But I did not expect the sense of loss and confusion that overshadowed this momentous moment for me.

There are things that I am glad to be done with. I will never again have to walk into Walmart, school supply list in hand, cursing because the specific brand of scissors on the list is so damn expensive. I won’t have to lie awake worried that my children will be left to their own devices on a snow day while I am still required to go to work. Parent-Teacher Conferences, report cards, lunch money are all concerns I am relieved to set aside. I wonder if runners feel this sense of relief when they reach the end of the race and can finally stop running. Do they also feel a sense of loss, knowing they will never run this race again?

On that side of the finish line, I worried if my children would make friends, get bullied, find a date to the prom, get picked last for kickball in gym class, make good choices, and wash their hands. On this side, the worries feel sharper and harder, the consequences harsher. Will they find a good job, an employer who values and appreciates them; will they meet a partner to share their life with? Will they have a warm bed and a hot meal everyday; will they (still) make good choices, and wash their hands? And what do I want my life to look like now?

For twenty five years, more than half my life, my focus had been raising my children. I dedicated my life to being a mother with more intensity than an Olympic runner training to beat a world record, because I was running that race 24 hours a day, seven days a week, for a quarter of a century. When people told me “follow your passion” I would respond by saying “I am passionate about taking care of my family.”  The day I crossed that finish line for the last time, there was no glorious sense of victory. Between one moment and the next, the purpose that kept me steady, like the bannister on steep stairs, slid out of my grasp and I was left grasping a heart full of secret grief, even though I expected triumph, to bask in the congratulations from family, friends, colleagues and acquaintances.

I was so focused on getting to the finish line that I never thought to look across it, to the other side, to see what lies beyond the ribbon stretched across the path. I never suspected that the other side of the finish line was not a destination that we would all enjoy together, but a complete, almost instant, transformation from running partner, to spectator. I didn’t expect it to hurt.