Goings and Comings

Having a baby shower for your firstborn on the same weekend your youngest moves halfway across the country makes for some interesting emotional moments. From 5:00 a.m. on Saturday, standing on the driveway tearfully waving goodbye to collapsing on the couch and sleeping in my party dress on Sunday, the highs and lows I experienced over the past two days would rival anything Space Mountain could ever throw at me.

Change and I have never been the best of friends. I'm all for the status quo if I have any kind of say in the matter. I know that's not a recipe for growth but if you ask me, growth is very overrated. And you can call me crazy but I'm also not particularly fond of events that leave me feeling as if my heart is being ripped out of my chest. Having never sent either of my kids off to a college that was more than a couple of hours away, it was inevitable that a few tears were going to be shed as I watched the Denver-bound moving truck fill up with my son's belongings; as I watched my parents envelop him in a bear hug and warn him to stay away from "that marijuana crap"; as I watched his pregnant sister give him an extra embrace, knowing that he would miss the birth of her first child.

But, after all the tears, I knew there was work to be done. There was a shower to be thrown; a welcoming party for the newest member of our family. There were cupcakes to decorate and balloons to be hung. I was grateful for the diversion.

Sunday afternoon, a roomful of friends and relatives gathered to abundantly bless our daughter and her husband with love and everything our new grandson could possibly need. There was so much joy watching my daughter revel in the anticipation of becoming a mother that, for a moment, I could only remember how wonderful it is to be a parent. Because, no matter how many times I've felt like my heart was being ripped out of my chest, I've been lucky enough to be a part of creating two amazing people that have brought me more happiness than I could have ever imagined. They were the ones who made my dreams come true.

Now it's their turn.

Hold on Loosely. . .

The other day (okay, it was a few weeks ago) when I was out for my once daily but now bi-weekly walk, I saw a mom walking ahead of me with her small son. She was dragging his now discarded scooter as he scurried gleefully ahead of her. I never saw their faces but I watched intently as they repeated the same pattern over and over again. He would run a half a block ahead of her and then come running back to hold her hand for a minute and then take off again. I never heard her say a word; no chastising threats about the looming street ahead; no frantic warning not to run too fast. No, this was a silent dance (except for the recurring giggles) that repeated itself for several blocks. And, as always, it made me think about my own children and about just how little things change.

If we do our jobs as parents, we'll give our kids the skills and confidence it takes to leave us. But, just like that mom with the scooter, we'll have our hands ready to grab onto in case things get too scary. When I watched that little guy take off, I could feel his delight in his independence; when I watched him come back to hold his mom's hand, I could feel his trust directed at the one person he knew would always have his back. He never turned around to make sure she was still there. He didn't have to. He knew she would be there to protect him, to look out for him. He could head for the unknown without fear.

Now that my son is living on his own and my daughter is about to be married, I can't help but think of that mom and her little boy. As much as I miss them being the babies and toddlers I fell in love with, I'm beyond thrilled at the competent, generous, adventurous people they've become. It may not always feel like it to them but I want my kids to take off; I want them to fly without fear.

My hand will always be there to come back to.

Harder Than I Thought

I really don't want to be a nag. I want to be done with hovering. But what is any self-respecting mom supposed to do? They're here. They're doing stuff under my nose and expecting me to ignore it. But they're giving me no choice - leaving the house without eating, going out in a snowstorm without a hat and gloves, wearing shorts when it's below zero. I'm telling you, it's making me crazy.

I do my best to bite my tongue. Honest. Let them learn I tell myself. Let them freeze their asses off and maybe they won't do it again. Let them go through an eight hour shift without food. If they weren't here, I wouldn't have a clue. I'd go on my merry way under the umbrella of blissful ignorance, safe in the assumption that I'd taught them what they needed to make it out there in the cold, cruel world. But everyday, I'm reminded that I have not. And I'm not crazy about that reminder.

I wish I could find a way to stop worrying. I know I can't fix anything anymore - they're way beyond the band-aid stage where everything could be fixed with a Spider Man or Cinderella band-aid (although I think I still have a few in a drawer upstairs, just in case). I know they're here because they're trying to figure out what to do next and how to do it. I know I have to sit back, shut up and let them come to me.

Or not.

To Speak or Not to Speak

One of the hardest things about having your grown child still living at home is how often you have to bite your tongue. Well, how often you have to at least try. Hearing parts of emotional phone conversations, seeing late night comings and goings, and observing questionable behavior without commenting is something I've discovered I'm not particularly good at. After butting my nose into my kids' business for two decades, it's asking a lot to turn off such a finely honed worrying machine. And while there are some wonderful aspects to being the parent of twenty-somethings, assuming the role of silent, yet emotionally invested, spectator isn't one of them.

I've found that twenty-four hours is about my limit. That's about all I can stand before I break down and ask that question that I probably shouldn't or offer that wise but totally unsolicited advice. Amazingly enough, it doesn't usually go well after that. My daughter ramps up the 'you're not the boss of me' attitude and I lapse into the disappointed parent incapable of keeping my mouth shut, even when I know I'm about to make matters worse. The funny thing is, in my rational moments, I know she's just trying to assert herself. I know she's trying to figure it out. Along the way, I know she's going to make choices I'm not crazy about. I also know that it's going to get a whole lot easier for both of us when she's not making them right in front of me.

Guess Who's Coming to Dinner?

After more than twenty years of feeding a person on a regular basis, you would think that his arrival for yet another meal would be no big deal. You would be wrong. Today, my son is coming over for dinner. It's not a holiday and it's no one's birthday and he's coming for dinner. Okay, I did entice him by dangling the promise of one of his favorite meals. I know he loves us but it never hurts to sweeten the pot.

Still, it's weird hosting your kid when a couple of months ago he was helping himself to anything you were silly enough to leave in the fridge. Oh, wait, he still does that. But it does feel strange to see him on the other side of the door, standing there with dessert in his hands. Don't get me wrong. It's nice. But it's weird.

I'm sure I'll get used to this new phase of our relationship. I've already accepted the fact that he's gone (although he did camp out on our couch this week for one night). I know I'll eventually clean out his room and turn it into something else. Exercise room, anyone? But, right now, I'm not there yet. It's still just a little weird.

Still Hovering

I once saw a piece on a national news show about "helicopter moms". Smugly, I judged these crazy women who were calling their college aged children, checking up on everything from homework assignments to roommate squabbles. 'That will never be me', I told myself. 'I would never humiliate my children (or worse, myself) by sticking my nose into every aspect of their lives. Some of these women even called their kids' professors, pleading for better grades or leniency for missed assignments. It's a wonder that their "little darlings" were still taking their calls.

While I'm proud to say I haven't actually done any of the above, I have to admit I'm still having a lot of trouble not allowing my kids to suffer the consequences of their actions. Take taxes. They knew they were due on the 18th. So why did I feel I had to beg, cajole and, I'm sorry to admit, actually do most of the work associated with filing their paperwork? Why couldn't I just step out of the way and let them take care of it? Why couldn't I mind my own business, concentrate on finishing my own and head to the post office without those extra envelopes in hand. It's not like a SWAT team was going to show up to haul them off to jail if they were late. They were getting money back. The IRS probably doesn't mind a bit if you're late if they owe you. But I simply could not wrap my head around their procrastination. They were going to get money back. What the heck were they waiting for? Oh, yeah. They were waiting for me to do it for them.