This essay is part of the Between Chapters project, inspired by the book. What chapters are you between? How did you get from one chapter to another? Share your story here.
My 15-year-old son had a growth spurt recently. Suddenly, he’s the tallest person in our family, much to his delight — and to my older son’s and husband’s chagrin. His clothes and shoes are now enormous, requiring more space in his closet. The metal bars must be raised, shelves need to be reconfigured, and new hangers are on the way.
This isn’t a small job, physically or emotionally. Hand-me-downs are a thing of the past. Little League uniforms and Halloween costumes will make way for size 12 Jordans, a budding watch collection, and cologne. A lot of cologne.
It’s time to accept what I’ve been loath to even acknowledge for a while now. The littlest one has gotten big, and there are no more littles in the pipeline. It’s like I was abducted and tossed into an alternate reality, one in which my old mom job has become obsolete. I’ve been offered a new position, but it’s in something impossibly obtuse, like finance. And I don’t know how to read a spreadsheet.
I don’t know exactly where I fit in anymore. I’ve spent two decades as the backbone of my family, and now that so much of the weight is dispersed — to friends, schools, interests, and lives increasingly separate from mine — I’m feeling a bit wobbly.
Last year, when I was mentally preparing for my oldest to leave for college, a friend whose kids are older than mine put it like this: “You’re transitioning from parenting to being a parent.” It’s a simple concept, although not entirely intuitive. I took it to mean I’d no longer be steering the ship but, instead, serving as an occasional fueling station and port in a storm. Vital functions, yes, but not nearly as instinctual or gratifying as being at the helm.
My older son is now home from college for the summer. During the first few weeks he was back in the house, we were engaged in an awkward dance, each of us trying to lead and sometimes stepping on the other’s toes. He told me that he’s an adult. I silently begged to differ, because of the financial dependence, the not fully developed prefrontal cortex, and all. I think the proclamation was code. From now on, our relationship will be different than it once was. Apparently only one of us needed reminding.
In hindsight, I can track some of my older son’s incremental detachment over the last five years, as he spent more time acting like a tenant in our home, living among us but not always with us. Whereas I was once his closest confidante, he began keeping things private or sharing them only with his dad. The less he played with Lego and Nerf guns, the faster he pulled away from me and leaned toward the guy who plays guitar and knows a lot about tech. There was a new ease to the relationship between father and son, untainted by the kind of worry and vigilance I brought to the table.
With my younger son, I can see him cutting the apron strings in real time. He’s in deep adolescence, with all of its pushing and pulling. I recognize the familiar draw of his dad, who’s fun and patient and into cool things. My husband has taken to “being a parent” like a champ. I’m holding onto “parenting” for dear life.
I feel such a sense of loss for that moment in time I was warned would be fleeting. When I was in the throes of parenting — the days when my kids left their wrappers on the counter or walked on a clean floor with dirty cleats — I used to tell myself: “One day, there won’t be any stray wrappers lying around for you to pick up, and you’ll miss it.” At the time, I didn’t know how I’d actually feel when “one day” came around. Turns out I’d be happy to collect the empty juice boxes from wherever they landed.
On occasion, however, my rose-colored parenting glasses slip down my nose, and I glimpse the day-to-day reality of having young kids as I observe other families. Like this morning at the farmers’ market. The coughing and sneezing and runny noses, oh my. The crying and tantrums. The nails-on-a-chalkboard whining. Demanding food and drink. Double dipping their taster toothpicks. Spilling their freshly squeezed orange juice. Wanting to be carried. Wanting to walk independently. Did I mention the whining?
I saw a mom pushing a baby and a toddler in a double stroller while holding the hand of another, who appeared to be five years old, and who was crying and stomping his feet because he wanted to go to the playground RIGHT NOW. The boy let go of his mom’s hand and ran into the crowd, headed for the play structure. She started yelling, “AIDAN! AIDAN! AAAI-DAAAAAN, COME BAAACK! MOMMY STILL NEEDS TO GET THE BONE BROTH!”
Poor, frazzled woman. I had the urge to tell her she’d miss all of this someday. But then I thought better of it. Too soon.
Meanwhile, my own boys were ambling a few steps ahead, laughing at something I must have missed. One of them was holding a heavy bag of fruit for me. They got in line and paid with their own phones. I have to say, I felt relaxed. “Being a parent” instead of “parenting” isn’t all bad.
I just don’t have the physical stamina and infinite patience parenting takes anymore. On those bittersweet days, when I’m searching my boys’ stubbly faces for the babies they once were, or when the house is eerily quiet, I’ll be sure to take a trip to the farmers’ market to enjoy “being a parent.”
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