Last Tuesday, I was driving my oldest to Seattle Children’s Hospital; we were headed in to get a second look at his left thumb, which had been bothering him since baseball practice two weeks earlier. It was a rare moment for the two of us to share an extended period of uninterrupted time together. Before our pit stop at Starbucks, I’m pretty sure I was yammering on, making my way through an earnest list of “advice” that had been stockpiling in my mommy mind; a list I saved for perfect moments, just like this one (when my poor child was trapped by circumstance & forced to listen to my wannabe Yoda ramblings on life). After we had drinks in hand, he chose some music & I tried to follow advice from the latest parenting book I was reading, letting him lead the conversation… so naturally we drove in silence, grooving to the lyrics. And as I sat there listening to Twenty-One Pilots’ “Message Man” – you don’t know my brain, the way you know my name; You don’t know my heart, the way you know my face – I felt my younger self reach out and slap me across the face. In other words, an epiphany struck me southbound along Lake City Way.
Lemme back up a bit…
You see, I’ve been struggling against my kiddo for the past few months, ever since he turned 13. Roundabout last spring, my sweet, diligent, responsible, athletic, academic, early-rising kid had evolved into this dude who slept in, dreaded school, hated homework, fought bedtime & questioned every request (order? demand?) out of my mouth… his sense of humor bordered on inappropriate & I kept trying to think of ways I could stick all of his parts back into a box & repackage him for a PG audience… conveniently forgetting, of course, that he had left PG in the dust and was quickly departing the PG-13 lane, headed toward adulthood via the unpredictable teen expressway.
For a plan-obsessed, slightly neurotic, do-gooder mom like myself, it messed with my overall parenting plan. This was NOT the time for my kid to suddenly decide to throw a wrench in my well-oiled machine. WHY should he go to bed later than 9pm? WHY won’t he wear the God-awful, fluorescent green jacket he chose last year anymore? WHY won’t he wear long pants or fix his hair or, or, or…. follow any of the other orders I spit at him a million miles an hour each and every day? And why does his sense of humor flirt so heavily with sex & swearing?
Of course, until that moment in the car, I never saw myself as a dictator. Nor did I fully recognize that (of course) his jokes were his way of navigating the life themes facing him daily. I believed I was acting in the best interest of my children, in the interest of order & harmony… I had yet to realize I was quickly morphing into my worst nightmare – a nagging, perfectionist mother in search of fictional clean-cut, buttoned-up children, blind to the perfectly imperfect, lovely beings who stood in their stead. Perhaps not quite Leave It To Beaver, but Brady Bunch would do nicely.
Somewhere along the path of parenthood, I had lost my way – where a toe-ringed rebel had once stood her ground, a diamond-studded suburban mom had taken up residence. Where a would-be traveler dreamed, a catalog shopper coveted. Not only did I not know my child’s inner thoughts or feelings, I’m pretty damned sure I forgot my own. No healthy individual really believes that if she buys that cowl-neck cashmere sweater in moss, life will finally be perfect. And yet there I sat, driving my big old SUV that a twenty-something me would have scoffed at (side note: I love my SUV – it fits the kids, their gear, the dog, camping -ugh- gear & more and when the kids leave the nest, I will love sizing down to a zippy fun car), wearing last year’s antidote to winter doldrums – a blue woven scarf from Nordstrom’s that had reminded me of sunshine & ripped jean shorts – wondering how I had turned into this.
Now, before you think too long and hard about the “new me,” it’s not all bad. In many ways, I am stronger and wiser than I was at 25. I have opened deeply buried boxes of demons, faced them head-on & become freer and hopefully kinder as a result.
But I have also discarded some social constructs – high school, corporate America – only to unquestioningly adopt new ones, most importantly and inexplicably intertwined are those of parenthood and consumerism. And I write this, in large part, because I do not believe I am alone.
As I have strived to be the best parent I can be, I have been so busy “doing” – hosting huge annual fetes for droves of children, baking cookies and cupcakes until my passion for cooking fizzled to a crisp, creating “memories” while shooing away my own children with a hiss as I planned, prepared and cleaned up… in my effort to forge a beautiful childhood for my kids, I have likely waltzed right past many spontaneous, authentic moments to connect.
I have been so busying shopping for the perfect life – the plushest linens, the warmest winter coats, the coziest Adirondack chairs, the best closet organizers – that there are sparse funds left for the big European trips I used to dream of taking with my kids… Amazon stockholders are rejoicing as I sit in a beautifully adorned home with just 4 summers left until my son goes off to college.
Children have the uncanny ability to unseat you from your perfect little spot on this rollercoaster called life & give you a little air – and perspective…. Sometimes whilst your stomach drops. And I got just what I needed on Lake City Way last Tuesday afternoon. As I sat and listened to my son’s music, I finally remembered what it was like to feel. Just. Like. Him. I felt the strong connection between who I once was & who he was struggling to become. And I hopefully hit a virtual reset button – had a T’Shuvah moment, if you will – on my road to becoming the parent my kids need rather than the one that looks good in the next #blessed Facebook post.
As we all wind down from an eventful 2017 & prepare to ring in a New Year, what better time to self-reflect & adjust? Sometimes all we need is a little less chatter and some good jams. Lucky for me, my son has great taste in music. And through his journey to manhood, I have an opportunity to rediscover who I have always been, albeit buried under a layer of good intentions and Amazon boxes.
Children are the gifts that keep on giving, if you give them space to be and grow. And, if we allow it, they will be the best teachers we will ever have.
May you each enter the New Year with hope, expectation & reassessment of where you are and where you are going. Here is to 2018 – may it be positively pivotal in your life.
Musings of a Mom 