Today is cap and gown distribution
at the high school and my son will collect his graduation garb in advance of
Thursday’s ceremony. He's earned a gold cord to drape over his shoulders in recognition of his hard work. Perhaps I am lacking emotional depth, but I am not the
least bit sad for him or for me. The years he has spent in compulsory
education have been sufficient to prepare him, and he has shared his
restlessness with me. He is ready to graduate, and I am ready for him to do so.
Not surprisingly, I am, in spite of
my dry eyes, hopeful that when my son starts college in the fall he likes it. I
hope he enjoys college as much as I did (yep, that much). I hope he finds people
like him, who are supportive of his interests and aspirations, as much as I
hope that he finds people who challenge him to move beyond the place he came
from and the person he is now.
College is a place where he can
thrive if he chooses, and fall flat on his ass if he chooses. I can listen and
I can counsel, but I cannot make those decisions for him. Neither do I want to
make those decision for him, nor do I feel any panic or remorse at the loss of
control. The days when I could direct his behavior are over; they have been for
a while. Now, I request, suggest, and advise.
When my son was born, I felt
terrified of him. In the hospital, I let the nurses bathe him. He was small,
and I thought, fragile. At first, he didn’t eat and I had to hold down his
squirming limbs so a doctor, younger and possibly even more anxious than me,
could draw blood from my son’s thread of a vein. He cried himself into a
red-faced, stiff-limbed ball of anger. When I held my infant, I feared I’d
break him, drop him, or hurt him somehow. Strangely, my fear was something I
hadn’t known as a teen babysitter. At 17, I handled other people’s infants with
greater confidence than I was capable of with my own child, at 30. Once the
squalling, slippery baby is your own, there’s an understanding absent from a
paying gig. As he grew stronger, so did I. We became people together. Now, it’s
time for us to become people separately.
Who the people are that we will
become, I don’t know. I resist projecting on him a persona that comforts me,
but may be entirely wrong for him. My faith in him is strong enough that I can
let him become who he will, assured that I have drummed into his head the idea
that if he needs a place to regroup; he can come to me as long as I’m
breathing. He insists that he will not need to because he is determined to make
his way successfully from Friday, June 10 forward; but my offer still stands,
and perhaps that’s why he has the confidence to go ahead.
We’re supposed to teach our kids so
much: right from wrong, responsibility, independence, kindness, compassion, how
to ride a bike, how to swim, when to speak up, and when to say no. We have
arsenals of books and expert opinions as to how to do this. We have guides by
which we can plot out our child’s development at each stage, so we know exactly
what to expect (good luck with that, there’s always a crapshoot element). But
how are we supposed to teach that in which we are not yet proficient?
I’ve bluffed my way through many of
the almost 7,000 days since my son’s arrival. My poker face is still deficient.
He knows when mom’s betting on an empty hand. Fortunately, I don’t have to
bluff often any longer. I can tell him I don’t know, or, I’m not sure, and we
can still get through whatever. That freedom comes with the kid’s age, not
mine. He’s old enough that I can be honest about my fallibility, and I don’t
lose my position as his mom. Actually, I think once he hit second grade, we
started working past the mom is perfect illusion. Although, that might actually
be a realization I made, not him – I figured out that I couldn’t keep that act
up. We survived.
We will continue to survive, I
believe, in part because we’ve become people in our own rights, not just mother
and son. Our relationship, and hopefully I’m not deluding myself on this, is
not merely parent and child, but two individuals who share more than blood. We
share history, memories, and a bond that started out of necessity, and
continues out of respect. So, when I don’t cry at graduation on Thursday, know
that it’s not a lack of love, but an abundance of respect for the person he is
becoming that prevents the weeping.
