Posts in category: Parenting

Dear Son of Mine on Graduation Eve,

I love that my heartbeat was the first one you heard and that my hand the first to hold yours. That God entrusted broken me with you is humbling and overwhelming.When I first became a mother to you I had no idea. About so many things.For starters:I had no idea that you would say some form of “mom” or “mama” or “mommy” a dizzying number of times a day. Every. Day. For. Years. Or that I would follow you around for months on end cleaning up messes. (Eventually I got a clue that “messes” were a stage not to be outgrown. I surrendered and began to make messes WITH you. I love that part. You taught me that messy memories are the best.)

I didn’t know that I would hum the tunes of Disney movies daily. Or that I would pretend I know how to dance with you and your sister in the kitchen. You took my hand and led me to those places and it awakened something in me. Thank you. I had no idea that you, my blue-eyed boy, would humor the young girl in me and find a jacket and a flower and play “wedding.” Your toddler hand would take mine and dance. Your smile reflected that of your father’s and it halted me. Your scraped knees and tree-climbing and endless curiosity exhausted me some days. But I found my true calling in those moments. You led me by the hand to the mission of being a mom.

I had no idea that in 3rd grade, 7 years into our dance, you would flash your toothless grin over your backpack in the hall of that elementary school. And that your doing so would undo me. That I would fight to breathe through tears as I walked to my car, knowing that this was a milestone. One that needed to be fully felt and photographed. And held. The only camera I had was my heart, and so there it has stayed. Frozen in time. Just like the image I hold of those handfuls of flowers you gave me. Over and over, plucked from the backyard. Dandelions and daisies were never so beautiful.

I had no idea that laundry would overtake me. And that I would lose some of myself in it. That some days I would feel like that unmatched sock, wondering where I belonged. Existing between the changing, the feeding, the shopping, the cleaning, the rocking, the bottles and bibs.

You didn’t stay in any of those stages very long. You moved on and I jogged alongside you. I covered myself up in room-mom duties. I researched creative snacks for Valentine’s Day and marked school picture days on my calendar. I sewed Halloween costumes. I re-learned multiplication tables and wandered around school carnivals while you tried to win a fish or a new friend.

I didn’t know that I would see your passions before you did. And that I would push you out of your comfort zone toward them. I often doubted myself, but never you. I had no idea that my brain would fail to work when you were sick or that my heart would ache alongside anything that injured yours. Or that I would Google “how to treat a gecko bite” and other ridiculous scenarios that I had no clue how to handle.

The calendar spins around a few more times. You are a teenager.

Boy of mine? We play tennis. And I remember my Chris Everett racquet and how it felt to hold it in my hand on that court when I was 12. I sit on the edge of your bed as you play guitar and I try to pluck a few insights about your day out of you. I pack lunches.  I pack your tennis bag. I make sure you have pants that fit.

And I pack more lunches.

I have laughed with you until my stomach hurt and my eyes watered.

I have cried. A lot. But in your presence I am mostly strong. I try hard to have conviction and answers to questions and snacks when you’re hungry and appointments when you feel sick.I have worried. A lot. But in your presence I am decisive. I calm you and have courage and your favorite dinner when you have a bad day.

I supply a fresh box of Kleenex and we go out for sushi  when you are confused.

It’s what I do. It has become who I am. A mom.

And now, you stand in our kitchen before your last day of school as you have a thousand mornings. We measure each other by the fireplace. Suddenly you are taller than me.I only cry after you have swept past me, backpack flung and murmuring ” Don’t forget that I have graduation practice this afternoon.” And finally, through the now-closed door:”Love you mom.”

I stop right here in the kitchen where dirty dishes are piled and remnants of your morning routine surround me. To be thankful.

Because the truth is that at each stage you have blessed me in ways immeasurable. In fistfuls of flowers and doodles and the day-to-day knowing of you. Through your guitar music and all the hours I have sat on bleachers cheering for you. Your crayons and concerts have marked my place in the world.

It’s absurd how much I love you.

I had no idea that my entire world could abandon its axis and jump to revolve around you. And how much of me it would take to do so. And how now, teetering on the edge of you being on your own, I can’t imagine my axis jumping again when you are gone and on your own.

The dance is changing again. I miss the days when the scariest thing we did was climb the tall slide or go to the deep end of the swimming pool. It’s a big, confusing world out there. I want to look into your sweet face of yesterday and say “I’m sorry for disappointing you.” Because I’m not nearly as perfect as you saw me at 4 and 6 years old.

Can I tell you a secret that I tried to keep from you but is the truth? I am riddled with flaws. I stumbled into motherhood with lots of baggage. You have discovered some of this already. You now know that I bake (a lot) when I’m angry or sad. You scatter from the kitchen in self-defense, returning to help me consume the culinary manifestations of my mood. You’ve also surely noticed that I have ADD and at the same time I am a perfectionist. Which means I like things perfect. But not for very long. Ridiculous, I know.

My mother’s prayer today is to be able to point you to the ONE who will always have grace and forgiveness when mine has run dry. To show you how empty we need to be to allow the filling of the Holy Spirit, and to introduce you to the ONE who doesn’t get tired or bitter. To run to our God. Our God who never gets angry, even when you ask what’s for dinner or where you can you find your khaki pants. For the hundredth time. Because the reality of being a good Mom to you? It is a painful and beautiful dance. My job is to encourage you to cling to a loving God who can really CAN patch your scabbed knees and steady you when shaken. The Father who is an incredible dancer and the REAL finder of lost things. And the Book that has all the answers that I don’t.

These truths might be just word arrows now. But I pray they will point you in the right direction.

Anything good I have added to your journey has come from Him, Beloved boy of mine

Thank you for painting my world with finger paints and firefly chases and ferris wheels. And for dancing with me in the kitchen.

I love you to the moon and back,

Mom

When you were very young and just learning to walk your dad and I tried to make the path a bit safer for you.  We moved coffee tables that had sharp edges and cut your food up into small bites. We tried to make sure you had vegetables every day.We knew that there would be falls and bruises, but we wanted to control some things so you could be spared unnecessary pain.

There were nights that you couldn’t sleep so I held you close and sang songs that my mother had sung to me. There were other nights you had nightmares.  We were overprotective, I know. Our intentions were always good.

We read food labels and had discussions with friends about the safest car seats. We did ridiculous things like put your favorite blankie in the freezer because you liked it cold on your feet while you trying to comfort yourself to sleep in the late evening.

We may have been a bit neurotic at times.

Mostly we wanted to keep you safe. We wanted you to know there were boundaries to your bravery. Some things were downright dangerous so we tried to protect you from those.

I wanted to control what might hurt you. As you grew I pushed you a little further into independence. You fell more and I let you.

They were little things at first, like letting you go to school with your shoes untied because you refused to lace them yourself even though you knew how. I pushed you higher on the swing when you asked. Eventually you pumped your legs yourself and floated higher than I could have swung you.

And then one day you jumped.

I began to learn that soaring high and falling hard was not the most terrible thing that could happen.

Falling meant you were being brave. Scars became proof of your freedom and eventually became great stories for us to tell. I took you fishing when you were five and let you cast out all by yourself, bating the hook and cutting yourself in the process a time or two. When you caught that first fish, your hair all crazy from getting up so early to bait your own hook, I smiled wide.

I watched you leap from the big rocks into the river while we were camping when you were seven.

I listened close after you made that first big decision to audition for that part in a play when you were twelve.

I prayed hard that your heart wouldn’t hurt as much as mine did when things went wrong.

I have always wanted you to be brave.

I just needed to give you a little bit at a time.

It’s a dangerous thing, the wanting to be brave. We all try to be braver than we really feel. Even grownups.

But today, with college on the horizon, I want you to know this:

I didn’t know how to be a mom. There was no lesson book. I just put my brave face on and tried to tackle it.  I tried and failed and tried again.

Along the way, being a mom to you  grew my bravery, too.
The truth is deep down I knew that my job was not to protect you, but to prepare you.

For life: the good, the scary, the ugly, the sad and glorious things.

And there was no amount of staying safe that was going to prevent you from getting hurt forever.

All my precautions were temporary fixes.

So today, with your graduation from high school staring at me from the horizon, what I really want you to know is this:

You are not me. You will always be a part of me but you are not me.

You have a big, wild, scary, adventurous, dangerous life to live.

I protected you when you were small because you couldn’t do it for yourself.

But now you are taller than me. In more ways than one.

I don’t want to hold you back.

I want you to be brave.
I’ll be here. We can patch things up together when you fall.

Go.  Be brave.

Update: My daughter is in college now, but these words I penned will always ring true…

You were so small and I didn’t think my heart could get any bigger when we met. The first days were filled with groggy feedings and doubting that I had the stamina to be a mom at all. I had dozens of legitimate and completely paranoid fears. In the middle of the night, when I was most exhausted, you would smile. It was just me and you and the quiet darkness. I knew you wouldn’t remember any of it. I also knew that it mattered deeply that I was there.

Those were the days.

You pulled up on the couch and took a few wobbly steps toward me
That was the first moment that I didn’t know if I should cry or celebrate.
Somehow I knew that independence was coming and that this was where we would begin to disagree on things.

I took you for your first flu shot and to the dentist and for ice cream.
I carried bandaids everywhere because everything was an adventure.
When you fell down hard I told you that it hurt me too.
And I meant it.

I watched from behind as you rode your bike for the first time along the sandy beach, your dad jogging beside you.
You wobbled a little, and then you pedaled fast.
You went out way ahead of us. I grabbed dad’s hand and we watched you fly forward into a new freedom.

Those were the days.

I forgot a bunch of times about the tooth fairy, and that picture day was on Tuesday.  I missed the note about Wacky Wednesday and you were sad that you didn’t dress up like the other kids.
Those are important things, and I’m sorry.
I sat with puppy ears on my head at the parade and I watched you sing with angel wings on your back at Christmas.
I hung your paintings on the refrigerator and the macaroni ornaments on the tree.
I wore the bracelet you made me.

I put notes in your lunchbox and filled out forms for field trips.
I missed you during the day after I waved to you on the yellow bus.
Things were too quiet and clean.
You were starting life without me and it took my breath away a little bit.
I began to discover new things about you.
And about myself.

Those were the days.

We made forts out of blankets and made messes in the kitchen.
I got angry when things weren’t clean enough.Sometimes I apologized.
Most times I didn’t.

You played the clarinet and practiced in your room.
Until you found singing filled your soul, and then you sang everywhere.
I loved hearing your notes and words float down from upstairs.
And the way hearing your own voice gave you courage.

Kids are mean and growing up is hard so I tried to listen when you let me.
I remember how I was awkward at your age~
How I wanted to fit in and stand out all at once.
How everything seemed so monumental. How everyone seemed to have it together but me.
And how I struggled to find my own voice.

Those were the days.

The swing set in the backyard was sold and you got the very last days out of it~gently swinging there with a book perched in your lap in the afternoon sun.
A trampoline replaced it.
The day it arrived we jumped together until I was dizzy and we hurt from laughing. I’d catch you lying on your back out there after school, staring up at the pine trees.
I’d wonder what you were thinking.

Those were the days.

Your car sits in the driveway now.  I find letters from colleges in the mailbox.
You stand taller than me and I borrow your lip gloss.
I don’t miss you during the day until my stomach hurts like I did when you were in kindergarden.
But I was wrong about thinking that my heart couldn’t get any bigger.
It has.

And these are the days, now…

The ones on the edge of you leaving home.
The days I review all the stages of “us.”

Each has been new and beautiful, scary, and sacred.

I bet when I look back in twenty years, I will say
“Those were the days”

I hope you will, too.

I don’t need to look at pictures because I hold snapshots in my heart. I close my eyes and picture my son running down the hill with a star-spangled top hat perched on his toddler head. The next year he holds hands with his sister, with red, white and blue goggles flopping behind his ears as they jump into the pool.

I replay memories on this Fourth of July. I stare at my fourteen year-old son’s face. He seems so mature and contemplative as we banter about this year’s menu. I laugh at his request for sparklers again this year.

I add them to my grocery list. I suppose we’re never too old to want to light up the sky with the loopy cursive of our names. I secretly hope he’ll always want to see the fireflies awaken.

If I close my eyes I can see the scene from years earlier, when the kids were nine and seven. Dusk is just settling and we begin to see the flickering lights along the path. My son pokes holes in the lids of mason jars at the picnic table. Wooden flags are pressed into the Georgia clay around the campsite and his sister bursts from the camper, ecstatic this July 4th.

 {photo by Cindee Snider Re}

(I’m writing over at Outside the City Gate today…join me there?)