One early summer afternoon, I was in the front yard with the boys. They were little—Z was 5, L was about 2 1/2, and M was just 6 or 7 months. At that point in my parenting life, most days were a blur of constantly feeling like I wasn’t enough, anywhere—at work, at home, for my boys, in my friendships, my marriage. And yet, I had moments with the boys when I remembered to stop and take in the scene, enjoy the miracle of these three little people who had somehow chosen me to be their mama. I would like to think this was one of those moments—that I was enjoying a beautiful, sunny day with these three boys. L was probably trying to make us laugh. Z was more than likely trying to direct L in some kind of game he had made up with very specific rules that L had no interest in learning or following. M was probably practicing sitting up. We called him our Buddha baby, he was such a happy little one.
At some point, in this idyllic scene, a ball escaped the yard and went into the street. We live on a cut-through between two major roads in our small city. While there is never a lot of traffic, cars can go pretty fast. We are at the bottom of a sizable hill and so, cars can pick up a lot of speed before coming by our house. L, naturally, ran out into the street to retrieve the ball. I may not have ever screamed as loud or run as fast as I did after my little boy heading right into the road after a rolling ball. Too little to understand he should have stopped and looked for cars. Too little to realize that while we can replace the ball, we cannot replace him. Even as I type this, I can feel my face flush slightly, my heart rate increase slightly.
No cars came barreling down the hill. I reached him before he was even halfway across. He was crying, confused as to why I had been yelling so loud. I held him so tightly, enveloping that sweet little boy in my arms, emphasizing to myself that he was here, safe, okay. When we got back to the yard, Z was holding M on his lap. They were both crying. No one had heard me yell that loud, seen me that scared. I took all three boys into my arms, awkwardly holding them on my lap. I explained to the older two why I was so upset. That we can never run into the road. That my screaming was out of fear, not anger. That I was so worried about L’s safety. And that everything was okay now. We were all here together.
While that worry was big, it was momentary. It was explainable. It was simple.
The worry I carry about my teenaged L is not so momentary. Not as easily explained. Nowhere near as simple.
I have already talked about how lonely it can be to parent a teen like L, how hard it can feel to keep holding that boundary steady while he pushes. And pushes. This weekend, it felt like he had one request after another. I felt exhausted from the information gathering efforts on our part (meaning me and my husband, D), sorting through what seemed okay and what didn’t, the disappointment and frustration with us on L’s part, and the worry. So much worry.
By Sunday night, I realized I was going to have to approach this a different way. I could not sustain this level of concern over the next three years of L’s time in high school. Worry suspends you in this what-if space and doesn’t allow you to move through the different possibilities or even just trust in a good outcome. To get myself out of worry mode, I had to look more closely at what I was worried about, how rational that worry was, and what I could do to manage it more effectively.
I started with thinking about L and what I know about him. Not what I’m worried I don’t know or what I’m worried might be true, but what I actually know. Overall, he is a responsible kid. He tells me the truth, though he will omit when it serves him. He does well in school. He stays active and engaged. He has a good group of friends. He is generally kind and thoughtful, (though that side of him has been a little more scarce at home lately). He is very social, much more social than his parents and brothers. And he enjoys risk—but within reasonable limits. So far, he has given me very few reasons to doubt him. At this point, my worry is not grounded in actual behavior then, but in the possibility of what might be.
What possibilities am I worried about then? I started with a very recent interest of his. He decided a few weeks ago that he was going to sign up for wrestling as a winter sport. He played soccer through 8th grade and decided not to try out for high school soccer because of the time commitment and the conflict with theater. But he has decided to take a break from theater, and so, has the time to do a sport this winter. Why was I worried about wrestling? Injury. L has already had a broken wrist and a broken thumb. The wrist situation is a story for another day, but it was stressful. Very stressful. So how could I address my worry about injury and wrestling? I texted my brother-in-law who wrestled for much of his young life and has coached as an adult. I asked him to tell me what to expect. He assured me the risk of injury was less than soccer, and injuries tended to be minor—pulled or strained muscles. And he shared that it would be so good for L in other ways, would teach him about himself in ways that he didn’t believe L could gain anywhere else. It’s lovely to have family that I trust. He also isn’t the only wrestler in the family. I have another brother-in-law (who kindly let us give our L his name) and my dad who both wrestled. And loved it. And so, I decided to trust my brother-in-law and let that worry go.
The bigger, looming worry is that L will end up at parties with alcohol and drugs. Lots of bad things can happen when alcohol and drugs are involved. Especially when you are a teen. This worry looms large for me. My kids are gifted with genetic loading on both sides for addiction. I spent 10 years working in substance abuse at the VA. I saw young men come back from Iraq and Afghanistan addicted to opiates that they were prescribed by the military. This was years before anyone was acknowledging the opiate crisis. Anyone who worked in substance abuse in the VA after the Iraq war could tell you about how addictive opiates were. We saw it every day. I know what addiction does to people’s lives, to their families. I do not want that for my kids. No one does.
This worry is harder for me to talk down. Because of what I’ve seen in my personal and professional life. I have to quiet the panicky, anxious feeling that comes up when I think about this. I think about what I’ve talked with L about. How many times we’ve talked about his greater chance of becoming addicted because of his genetics. About the specifics of different drugs—how addictive they are, what they do to your body. How he would react if he was at a party with other people drinking or doing drugs. How different it would be if it’s his friends vs. strangers. We have talked about brain development and how the brain isn’t fully developed until your mid to late 20s. Importantly, the last part of your brain to develop is the prefrontal cortex which is key in decision making. So developmentally, teenagers have a harder time making good decisions. This is why parents still need to put guard rails in place. No matter how much they believe that their kid is a “good” kid.
And then, I have to remind myself that a whole range of experiences can happen around being at a party or with friends who are drinking or using drugs. I was older than L when I went to parties. I never had more than one drink because I was terrified. I was not like L. I didn’t like risk. It made me incredibly anxious. But nothing terrible happened. No one ended up passed out or did anything awful. A few people did end up with substance use disorders later on, but I can’t say what role going to those parties had in their addictions. Worry can quickly lead you to all or nothing thinking, such as if he goes to a party, he will drink so much he will get alcohol poisoning and then become an alcoholic and face a very hard path in life. I guess that is one possibility. But probably not the most likely.
This is not to say that I will agree to him going to a party. The whole brain development piece, the necessity for guard rails…still applies. But it helps my worry to remind myself that it isn’t an automatic jump to the worst case scenario.
The other part of worry is feeling judged. When the kids were younger, it was much easier to talk with other parents about what was hard about parenting. While we didn’t all have the same approach, the deviation from the norm was relatively small. It doesn’t feel that way anymore. And the difference in values has felt wider and wider with some parents. When communication is open and both parents respect each others’ values, it works out fine. But it’s hard to understand when someone else’s parenting decisions are so far from your own. And even harder when that has an impact on your kid because they don’t respect your parenting. And so worry comes back to visit. To remind me that others may have judgment about my decisions. To make me feel defensive and hurt when I hear about a kid saying things about L that aren’t true.
L is still the kid who wants to run into the street after the rolling ball. He is still the kid who wants to ski the steepest slope at the fastest possible speed. He wants to throw his whole self into wrestling and make it his. He wants to spend his time with his friends loving life.
He doesn’t want me to get in his way.
I get it. I know this about him. It isn’t new. I have to remind myself that since that summer day, I have taught him to look both ways, and then look again. He no longer needs me to hold his hand as we cross the street because he knows when to cross on his own. He has learned to judge how quickly a car is approaching. He knows to make eye contact with the driver if he is crossing the street and a car is slowing down for him. He understands now that we can replace the ball. But I am still not sure that he realizes he is not, in fact, invincible. That it is still safer to cross in a cross walk with boundaries in place to help everyone stay safe. Including him.
Everybody knows
It sucks to grow up
And everybody does
It's so weird to be back here
Let me tell you what
The years go on and
We're still fighting it, we're still fighting it
You'll try and try and one day, you'll fly
Away from me-Benjamin Scott Folds