The school of parenting has many lessons to impart
to both parents and children.
Those lessons tend to cycle back around when you need a booster
shot to remind you of what this job entails.
I just dropped my oldest off at college
and I was reminded of a lesson
that I got really early on:
Parenting is equal parts grief and joy.
You are always mourning who they were
and celebrating in the streets over who they are becoming.
Always.
When they learn to walk, you grieve that it is difficult to contain them.
When they learn to talk, you grieve the simple silences.
When they make friends, you grieve their dependence.
When they learn the new math, you grieve your ignorance.
It's always both/and.
When I brought my firstborn home from the hospital
I was a fairly normal new mom in many ways.
I had read all the books,
cleaned and sorted all the onesies,
made sure to have seven kinds of diapers on hand
and an assortment of pacifiers.
I had charts and timers and boppy pillows.
I knew the basics of caring for an infant
from my time as an older sister for a slew of siblings.
I'd also managed to keep two puppies alive
so I was reasonably certain I could do the basics.
But in one essential way,
I was very different than a lot of new moms.
I was motherless myself.
I mean to say, the woman who bore me
is not a mother.
For many reasons,
we have both chosen not to have a relationship.
And the example that I had from her
is not something I wanted to repeat in any way
with my own children.
The impact of that separation
to my own perspective on mothering
and motherhood has been interesting.
It's often meant that I've been able to approach
this vocation with some objectivity.
What kind of mother do I want to be?
What themes need to be present for children to be healthy?
What does it mean to love and care for another
when the goal is for them to become
whole, independent entities of their own?
Who do they need me to be and
when does that person need to evolve?
It has also meant that I've had to look down a set of
'what-ifs' that most people can't imagine because
they haven't ever experienced them.
I have and I knew them to be a potential (and likely) reality.
In many ways, it felt inevitable that I would fail as a mother.
There are a lot of ways to parent well you see
and just a few ways to screw it up so badly
that there's a point of no return.
I have been in a parenting relationship
that was one of those impossible ones.
I have witnessed my spouse in another one.
We knew what not to do but understanding
what is the right move was more mysterious.
While the instinct is to go the exact opposite
way from the example that was set,
that's not always the right move.
We so often become what we despise.
The tension I've held around mothering
and doing it well has been palpable my entire life.
What if I let them down so irrevocably that they
can't maintain a relationship with me?
What if I fail to instill something vital to their
flourishing?
What if I do my best, try my hardest and OVERDO it-
smothering them in my need to get this right?
We've been unraveling that mystery
for 18 years now.
My little nuclear family adores each other.
I know I've said that before
but it is the most precious and satisfying gift
I have ever known.
A family that supports, nurtures and uplifts each other.
Without really any idea how to do it.
I had no map but more importantly
I had no experience within this kind of family.
And neither did my spouse.
We were both statistically speaking
destined to fail at this endeavor.
Thank GOD we realized we needed
help and support if we didn't want to repeat
the things we went through.
And if this is an acceptance speech,
I'd also like to thank several therapists,
our friends and church community,
the public library, and all of my aunts.
Oh, and coffee shops. Always the coffee shops.
The job of parenting is the only job
I really care if I get right.
It is the hardest thing I've ever done.
And it is inherently bittersweet.
He's very well prepared and he's ready for this step.
He has an incredible amount of love and support.
From his nuclear family but also from his extended community.
I do not doubt that he'll be home or that he'll thrive.
We've done our job and done it well.
But he's off on an adventure and for the first time
we can't really tag along.
I am doing cartwheels.
I am heartbroken.
Both.
And.
Which is exactly how it's meant to be.
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