Sadness that clings like humidity
I finished work early one day and since Z was home, I asked him if he wanted to run a couple of errands with me and grab some lunch. Food is always motivating for him, so I’m guessing his agreement was less about spending quality time with me and more about getting a Five Guys burger for free. But whatever the reason, I was thrilled to have him along for the ride. We chatted about the list that he has been making for college and when we might head out to purchase some of these items. I checked in about whether or not he had contacted his roommates (he has not.) The conversation lulled for a bit. We were at a stop light and I suddenly felt an overwhelming urge to just start bawling. Of course, I didn’t. I silently said a small gratitude for the sunglasses I was wearing, blinked back tears, and pushed those annoying sad feelings down, down, down. I stopped myself from reaching out and grabbing his hand to squeeze it tightly. Because, what the hell, Mom? I remind myself of Celeste Ng’s beautiful description of parenting a teenager:
“It was like training yourself to live on the smell of an apple alone, when what you really wanted was to devour it, to sink your teeth into it and consume it, seeds, core, and all.”
― Celeste Ng, Little Fires Everywhere
The thing is, this has been happening to me a lot. Maybe even daily. I find myself in the middle of doing something ordinary and mundane—cooking dinner, finishing up some computer work, answering emails—and I suddenly choke up. I go through my quick ritual of not allowing myself to feel those feelings, not allowing myself to cry, and I move on.
But lately, I have been having a harder time pushing those feelings away. They are lingering and hanging around. Much like the relentless, July humidity that clings to me like Saran wrap. Just as I know the humidity is to blame for the size of my hair (BIG. FRIZZY.) and the constant coating of sweat on my back, I know what is causing the feelings, the watery eyes, the sudden drop in my stomach, the urge to put a hand on my kid’s shoulder or hold his hand.
My middle child, L, has been living his best life this summer. The problem is that he and I don’t always see eye to eye on the parameters around that best life. I get it—it is hard to be 15 and dependent on your parents and your friends’ parents to get you to the places you want to go. It’s hard to believe you know all you need to know and have parents who believe that you need some guard rails to keep you safe. L recently jumped these guard rails and so, his dad and I had to reinforce them. Meaning he won’t be able to do some of the things he wants for a bit. As any parent knows, enforcing rules with a teenager who wants to live life to the fullest and doesn’t quite believe that the adults in his life have a clue is not easy. He decided this warranted not speaking to me for a few days.
I was okay with the silent treatment for the first 36 hours or so. I know my job is to be his mom, not his friend. And sometimes, that means stepping in to ensure that he is not in situations his still-developing brain can’t successfully navigate. But around hour 37, I had this overwhelming worry that this was the beginning of a much longer silence. That this consequence was going to be “the thing” that ended our relatively good relationship. Irrational? Absolutely. Did that change my worry mind? Nope.
My youngest son, M, remarked to me in the midst of this 36-hour period that he thought it would be a long three years before L goes off to college. As if he and I are old pals, facing the challenges of a child who wants it all together. M is a kind, loving old soul who still hugs me several times a day and doesn’t yet seem embarrassed or intolerant of my very existence. In the past few weeks, though, his voice has started changing; a clear, physical sign that the youngest of my three is crossing fully over into young man territory.
So you see, I know well what is causing these frequent and yet still unexpected bursts of sadness. This period of parenting is currently crushing me. Everything is shifting. They are all getting older. They need me less. And less. And less. One will move out in just a month. Another would like to move out yesterday. The youngest is still here and rooted, but now I know how fleeting our time truly is before he too will walk away toward his own life. I read Mary Louise Kelly’s words and I can’t stop the tears in my eyes, because how desperately do I wish I could have even 30 seconds of that time back?
“Treasure this. Treasure the way their eyes light up when you walk into a room. Treasure even the mornings they cry for you, the ones when you have to unwind and tear their arms from around your neck as you leave. Never again, I would tell my younger self—never again will someone need and love you with the intensity that James and Alexander do, right now.” -Mary Louise Kelly, It. Goes. So. Fast.
I read so many books about how to parent a newborn. A toddler. How to set limits and encourage reading and study habits; empathy and kindness. How to raise a child who is a good friend. So many things. And while sprinkled throughout these books was a carpe diem message, that these years go so fast, I don’t recall one talking about the grief of this phase of parenting. The tangible ache that comes when you know that your child is walking out the door into his own life. When the child directly behind him can barely hold himself back, jumping for his turn to head out on his own journey. In what other human relationship do we aim to have the other person leave us? I know. This is the job. I know that letting them go and make their own lives is what comes next in this journey.
What I didn’t know is just how very hard it would be.
photo credit: Dana Giuliana
photo credit: Dana Giulian