My youngest baby is 21 today. It makes me a little misty eyed, I’m not gonna lie.
I tried to resist the motherly instincts last night when she told me she was going out at midnight to buy her first legal drink.
Me: Be careful. Are you taking Ethan (longtime boyfriend) with you? Her: Yep! Me: Well, have fun.
(Ethan is big and strong and not the sort of guy you want to mess with. And very protective.)
See how well that went?
Don’t get me wrong; I love having adult children. I love the adult conversations, and it makes me happy to see the great women they’ve both become. But it’s real, on-paper, legal confirmation that this phase of my life is over.
Which is awful and awesome. It’s the end of being needed in many ways, but it’s better to be wanted anyway.
Parenthood is a long journey, and I’m not sure you ever really reach a destination in the sense that the trip is over. But I’m loving where I am now.
I love the laughter, the fun, and the friendship. The adult relationship that isn’t based on dependence, but on love, commitment and many, many shared memories. The ease of being with people who know you inside and out, have seen you in a swimsuit and without makeup and still love you.
It’s been an incredible journey. The best/worst, most rewarding/hardest most heart-rending/touching journey of all, I think. I’ve made mistakes, but I’ve done my best and I have no regrets.
I’ve never made a quilt, but I think parenthood is how I imagine it would be, and someday I will make one. It’s a panoply of squares, each of which represents a smile, a hug or a tear, all joined together into one beautiful piece. If the last 24 years of my life are that quilt, I’m grateful for one so beautiful, that covers me when there is a chill and comforts me when I cry.
Here’s to you, girls, and to the next 24 years together.
Yes, it is possible to communicate with teenagers — in fact, I believe most of the time they really want to invite us into their world.
But what happens when they do?
When they want to share their ideas about music, clothes, activities, do we call it stupid or let them know how much better our way is?
Three ways to build bridges instead of walls with teenagers:
Get with text. For teens and young adults, their primary mode of communication is the text message. Yet all too few parents are willing to adopt this quick, efficient mode of communication. Instead they complain that it’s silly and ask, “Why don’t you just call?” Instead of dismissing it because it’s less familiar, join them. Many times my girls texted me in situations in which they’d never have called, when they were out with friends, or even dates. They would let me know where they were and just chat about how things are going.
Music. There has to be something you can find to like. When I was a teen (in the ‘70s), my parents hated all of the music I listened to except Simon and Garfunkel. My dad had derisive nicknames for rock and disco and constantly let me know how awful he thought it was. The only positive comment either of my parents ever made about my music was when I played Bridge Over Troubled Water for Daddy. He loved that song and I thought it was fabulous that he liked something I played for him. These days, much of what our kids listen to is remakes from the 70s. It’s so much fun to sing along and watch them wonder how I know the words.
Social Networking. Yes, they spend a lot of time on Facebook and, increasingly, Twitter. It’s not stupid and it’s not, except in extreme cases, a waste of time. They are preparing themselves to live in this technology-saturated world, they are learning to network and to embrace technology, which is a positive thing.
One question I get asked a lot as many parents begin to join Facebook, “Should I friend my kid?” I say no. Let them friend you. Don’t make it a requirement or an obligation. My policy has been not to friend folks my kids’ age, so they don’t feel obligated or uncomfortable, however I’ll certainly accept their requests if they friend me, which they generally have.
As for monitoring their postings on social networks, as long as they lived under my roof, I had the password or the account was closed. Complete and total access. No exceptions.
If you want to communicate with teens, you have to do it on their terms, come into their world. When they invite you in, be a good guest.
A very long time ago, when I had a tiny baby, someone told me that successful parenting is a series of letting go moments. I didn’t believe it then. But now that I’ve lived it, I know it’s true.
I remember holding her, rocking her, inhaling the baby smells, feeling her little head nestling on my shoulder and thinking there was no way I was ever letting go.
Then one day I held her in my lap and felt her pull away, lean forward and try to sit up on her own. I let go and she sat up.
A few months later, I let her pull up on the coffee table and stand, sort of, on her own two feet.
Then she took a step, by herself, without my hand in hers.
After that, she learned to use the potty and sleep in a big-girl bed. She wanted to dress herself and she chose some interesting combinations of clothing. We took her to church in an outfit that didn’t match and we didn’t (much) care what anyone thought.
It seemed only moments later when I drove her to preschool, stopped the car and watched as she hopped out the door to go fingerpaint, run on the playground and listen to someone else read to her.
Soon she began Kindergarten — all day long. She learned to read and to write her name. And while she still wanted me to read to her occasionally, most of the time she wanted to read to her baby dolls and stuffed animals.
When it was time for the middle school dance, I couldn’t believe I was letting her go. To a dance? With a boy? But I helped her choose the perfect dress, watched her curl her hair and put on just a little blush, lip gloss, the tiniest bit of mascara and shoes with heels that were way too high. And she was beautiful.
Her freshman year, it was her first high school dance. She wore a long red dress and she looked way too grown up. But I let her go and after the dance, in the wee hours of the morning, she told me about her first kiss.
We taught her to drive cautiously and to concentrate on the road, knowing full well that when driver’s permit became license, away from our watchful eyes she would turn up the music and drive too fast and ride with boys. We were scared to death, but we watched her drive away.
All too soon we packed the car with her belongings and moved her into a tiny dorm room to live with another girl she barely knew. We helped her arrange her room, find a place for the mini-fridge and then I hugged her, afraid to let go, because I knew I was letting go for real this time.
A year or so later, we moved her into her first apartment. We bought a couch, a TV, a bed, gave her hand-me-downs from the attic, helped her hang pictures and cautioned her to always lock the door. Somewhere else became her home; now she comes to visit. When it’s time to go, she says, “I have to go home.”
One day, she’ll hold onto Jim’s arm as he escorts her down the aisle. She’ll let go and take the hand of a young man who loves her enough to never let go. Then someday she’ll become a mother and she’ll read this post and understand.
And that’s parenthood. It’s okay to let go. All of the growth is in the letting go.
Elizabeth finished the Atlanta Marathon with an unofficial (as of now) time of 4:40. She’s exhausted and hurting all over and on her way back to Memphis. Congratulations, sweetheart, we’re so happy for you! Here’s what she had to say about it on Twitter.
LOVED IT. Great feeling to finish. Marathons are awesome. If you're athletic at all DO IT. Something I'll always love. Can't wait til next 1
Elizabeth with her medal from the St. Jude Marathon
Just a few minutes ago, I got off the phone with Elizabeth, my oldest daughter, who in 2009 ran her first marathon. She called me just before getting in the car with friends to travel to Atlanta to run her second.
It was a very cold morning in December of 2009 as we sat in AutoZone Park to watch her cross the finish line. We had been there with her since the start and had waved to her at several points along the way. As excited as we were to share this day with her, I was completely unprepared for its emotional impact.
When she crossed the finish line, the tears of joy came as we watched her accomplish a feat that only one to two percent of Americans can claim. I admired her discipline, her commitment and the courage she found to finish nearly half of the race with a badly-sprained ankle.
But most of all, I admired her. The baby with blonde curls whose first wobbly steps thrilled me as much as her 26th mile.
I wish I could be in Atlanta this Sunday to see her cross another finish line. But my heart and my prayers will be with her. Run fast, my girl! We’re proud of you, not for the steps you run, but just … because.
Unremarkable. It means ordinary, lacking distinction. Not something we generally consider a compliment.
But medical terms are strange. A test result that is negative is usually a good thing; positive means you have whatever awful thing they are testing you for. So unremarkable is a medical compliment. As in, the biopsy done during my surgery is unremarkable. Which means I do not have cancer.
Yesterday was my follow-up appointment and my first time out of the house since the surgery. I was excited to actually see something past the end of my driveway. Jim took off work and Sara Ann came along too. I did my hair, put on makeup and a clean t-shirt with my warmup pants and off we went.
I had looked forward to that appointment as the day the doctor would tell me I can drive again and medically clear me to get on with my life. Unfortunately, I still don’t feel like driving, leaving the house was so exhausting I needed a nap afterward and I’m still very slow and weak. The patience I wrote about last week? Um, I still need to work on that.
So here are a few observations from week two:
Facebook is really, really awesome if you want to live vicariously through your friends.
Having surgery during baseball season was an excellent decision on my part. The Cardinals regaining first place would further enhance my recovery, I’m sure.
Hulu is my new best friend, Hell’s Kitchen is awesome and people who work in restaurants don’t get nearly enough appreciation. Especially if there’s a British guy yelling, cursing and constantly berating them.
There really is no limit to the height that dirty dishes or dirty clothes can be piled. This theory has now officially been scientifically tested. I’d have photos if I weren’t so embarrassed by our slovenliness.
As crappy as some people can be, the really good ones make up for it. And I seem to be blessed with a ridiculous number of the amazing kind of folk. The kind who bring you fabulous dinners for three solid weeks so you don’t have to think about what you’ll eat. And the one awesome friend who showed up with a bottle of wine and a 20-pack of Diet Coke “to fill all my beverage needs.” And then there’s the one who showed up today with delicious soup, right at the time I started getting hungry for lunch — and another who brought dinner and sat down for a glass of wine and conversation.
And it all started with my mom, the long-retired nurse who still has all the skillz. She came from Jonesboro the night before surgery and stayed with me 24/7 in the hospital. She knew exactly where to put the pillow when I rolled over so it would support my back. She slept so lightly that every movement of mine or squeak of the hospital bed had her asking what I needed. And she knew that her car would be less bumpy on the ride home than my SUV. She did laundry, cleaned house, fluffed my pillow, fetched my meds and took care of me. Some things never change.
And after all these years, I still find it humbling, comforting and … remarkable.
I’m going to preface this by saying that sometimes I have weird dreams. And weird thoughts. So maybe this is one of them, but it’s a kind of a fun mental game I’ve been playing for quite some time.
A few weeks ago, on the way home from our last lake trip, I shared my mental exercise with my family over lunch. They thought I was nuts. They still do. And they are probably going to roll their eyes if they read this (I’m used to it).
So I offer to you:
Let’s say you were being held against your will in an undisclosed location and had the opportunity to speak to your family in the presence of your captors. What would you say that is so out of character for you that your family would know you were in deep trouble?
For me:
I sure wish I had a cold beer (I hate beer).
Boy, do I need a good, hot cup of coffee (hate coffee too).
Ugh. All they are playing here is Simon & Garfunkel and it’s driving me crazy. Those guys can’t sing at all.
Just saw the most awesome ad set in Comic Sans and Papyrus.
I’m dying for that new Dell laptop (that one would have Jim sending the people in the white coats to carry me away).
You get the idea.
Some other favorites:
Jim: I’m craving broccoli. Ha.
Sara Ann (19-year-old daughter): My favorite word is crusty.
Elizabeth (22-year-old daughter): Sports are boring.
Ethan (Sara Ann’s boyfriend): I’m craving licorice and bell peppers.
JP (Elizabeth’s boyfriend): Sports are boring.
You get the idea. If you know these folks at all, you’d know that Jim despises broccoli, Sara Ann can’t stand the word crusty, Elizabeth and JP are sports fanatics and Ethan feels about licorice and bell peppers the way Jim does about broccoli.
I realize this has absolutely no value to anyone, but, please, I’m recovering from surgery, ok? Gimme a break.
So … how would I know if you were in trouble? Hit me up in the comments.
This countdown is getting serious. She leaves in One. Week.
What do you do the last week before your last child leaves for college?
It’s busy for her as she says goodbye to her friends, packs and cleans her trash pitdumping zone room. Busy for me as I plan the send-off dinner, try to enjoy every minute with her without smothering her to death and cry. A lot.
In some ways, the anticipation has been worse than the actual event. At least it seems so now — ask me again next week after she leaves.
She’s ready.
My dining room is full of dorm and her room is full of boxes and suitcases.
She’s excited about the challenge and ready to prepare for her future.
Over the weekend I got to hear her share insights on faith that were deep, thoughtful and meaningful, which gives me such peace.
I’m ready.
Yes, it’s hard. Hard as crap. But my Daddy taught me that few worthwhile things are easy. So that means this is very worthwhile.
I’ve got lots of exciting projects of my own to work on and that is going to be so much fun.
I can’t wait to watch how she’s going to use her gifts, talents and passions to work for good in the world.
At this point, I’ve either prepared her for adulthood or I have failed, so, in a way, the pressure is off. Now I get to just enjoy her last week at home. And try not to cry. Much.
In 20 days, my youngest daughter, Sara Ann, leaves for college. It’s the most significant life change since I first became a mother in 1988. I’ve been counting down the days, not to be morbid, but because it’s easier for me to process if I’m aware of what is happening.
We spent this past weekend at my family’s lake house on Greers Ferry Lake in Arkansas — the setting for some of the best times of our lives. It was our last lake weekend before The Empty Nest and my first inclination was, don’t think think about the fact that it is the last, just enjoy the time.
Except … while thinking about it certainly brings tears, do I really want to look back on these days and remember nothing special about them? No — I want to savor every moment; I want to be fully there. Tears are a small price to pay for the memory of:
The last dinner at the table at the lake. Steak, baked potatoes, garlic bread and peach cobbler. A nice bottle of Cabernet.
The last day on the lake. An idyllic sunny day with a pleasant breeze, screams of joy on the inner tube and time to relax and enjoy the clear water and unspoiled beauty of the foothills of the Ozarks.
The drawer. As we packed to leave, she showed me “her drawer” in the master bedroom. I hadn’t known about this drawer. It contains things she has kept there since she’s been old enough to open a drawer. Books, markers, hair clips, coloring books, rubber bands, some small toys, pencils. Little girl things, not college girl things.
The drawer took me back to a time when college would happen someday, not in 20 days; when many more dinners, sunny days, skinned knees, broken bones and broken hearts lie ahead.
I’ve never believed that to display emotion is to show weakness, that it’s necessary to deny what we feel in order to be strong. In my experience, it requires more strength to face that which is painful; to walk through rather than try to walk around and pretend to be unaffected.
So in 20 days, when I leave my youngest three hours away in Conway, Arkansas, I will feel it. I won’t distract myself with busyness, or try to take my mind to a happy place. I’ll curl up in a ball and cry if I need to and I’ll remember every thought, every feeling, every moment. And I know there will be a time when it hurts just a little less.
But for now, I’m going to count down the last 20 days and treasure each one. Even if it costs me a tear or two.
I hope she does 1 and 5 (but let’s wait a few years for 5), 3 is coming soon, I figure she’ll do 4 in a year or so and hope she’ll never do 2, 6 or 7.
My oldest child graduates from college tomorrow.
I can hope, pray and plead, but the decisions are now theirs. I can influence, advise and guide, but I can no longer control.
A few weeks ago, around the time of her 18th birthday, Sara Ann placed these things on my kitchen table. No more denial about this graduation thing. It is going to happen. It’s now three months and a few days until we move her into the dorm at Hendrix on August 17. Until my life changes more drastically than it has since September 20, 1988, when I became a mom for the first time.
One of my favorite songs, While My Guitar Gently Weeps, by George Harrison, has a line that says,
“with every mistake, we must surely be learning …”
I think that sums up parenting pretty well. And I’ve made my share of mistakes.
What have I learned? I’ve learned that many of the things that I thought were Really Big Things are really … not. Such as:
Potty training Really, we make this so much harder than it needs to be. Early potty training does not equal higher intelligence. No toddler who doesn’t want to use the potty is going to do it consistently for little pieces of cereal. I promise by the time they hit puberty, you will have forgotten about the potty.
How clean/messy they keep their room When they go to college and get a room of their own, they will either do better at it or learn to live as a slob.
Grades in middle school Middle school demands that a family shift into survival mode. It’s the bridge between elementary school playmates with squeaky voices and classmates with facial hair and raging hormones. Boys are icky vs. Ohhhh, he is hott*. It’s a time of transition: socially, academically, emotionally and physically. More than anything, they need a safe environment, free from undue pressure.
What they wear Beyond basic decency and modesty, let them express themselves freely. My two girls’ styles are as different as night and day; one can spend an entire day in stilettos on concrete and the other is all about Tom’s and Chacos. And both are absolutely beautiful in their own way. Their style is not an expression of you and it’s not their job to impress your friends with how nice they look.
Shaving I’m speaking about girls here; I know next-to-nothing about boys and shaving. Let them shave when they want to shave. The main thing about shaving is talking about it. I shaved, I need to shave, Omigosh it’s been a week since I shaved! This is just not important enough to let them feel excluded about. It’s hair. Let it go.
The most important thing I have learned in 21 years of parenting is savor every moment. From the first step to the first date, there is joy in every milestone. Take a million pictures, even when it seems silly. You’ll be glad when you look back at them and you won’t remember how much they complained.
Be there with your whole heart. Shop for school supplies and prom dresses. Be the one who always drives them places and listen to them laugh with their friends. Let them mess up your house and stay up all night, even if they keep you awake. Watch them fall in love and hold them when their tender heart breaks for the first time.
Welcome each new phase; in every change is a glimpse of the adult that you’ll someday know as friend rather than child. The one who just might give you grandchildren.
*This is not a typo; two ts means he/she is really hot. Which is just like cute, but scarier.
I turned 51 a couple of weeks ago. I like birthdays. And no cancer survivor in their right mind complains about getting another year older.
It’s kind of like a lopsided baseball game — even though the winning team is far ahead, they still try to cross home plate one more time. You can certainly win the game without the insurance runs, but they do make the victory a little more secure. At 51, I’m 11 runs ahead, which is a pretty nice lead.
A few random birthday reflections:
My family doesn’t even try to put all those candles on my birthday cake anymore; i just get the big number candles. I think they believe it would be dangerous otherwise.
It’s fun to watch my younger friends freak out when I tell them I finished my masters degree before they were born.
It’s cool to see the look of surprise when younger people realize I know how to work a computer and can type a text message just as fast as they can.
It’s good to have an excuse for being absent-minded and scatterbrained, which I’ve always been anyway. Now I can just remind people that I’m old. My kids buy it completely and leave me alone about the forgetfulness.
Every year is better than the last. The body may be falling apart, but my mind is full of the kind of lessons you only learn from experience. When I can remember them. See above.
I have a great life and am grateful for each and every one of these years. I love having adult and almost-adult children, especially when they turn out to be people you’d spend time with anyway. Marriage is better after 23 years than after one — anyone can be married for a year; 23 is a grand slam — and I’ve always wanted to hit one of those.
Note: I do know that baseball season is over. It’s the only sport I know enough about to make an analogy. And it’s only a few months until spring training starts.
I watched it from our deck of my family’s house overlooking Greers Ferry Lake. Sara Ann was about to begin her senior year in high school, my last school year with a child at home. Prelude to the empty nest.
Between the uncharacteristically cool breeze, the natural beauty and the chardonnay, my mood was reflective as I thought about the beginning of the end of this part of my life. A life defined by semesters, school days, spring breaks and Christmas vacations. The end of my girls’ lives as children as they move into adulthood — college graduation and the beginning of a bright career for Elizabeth, high school graduation and off to college for Sara Ann. A beginning for me as, for the first time in 21 years, I explore my own priorities and interests apart from motherhood. The end of rules and curfews. The beginning of years of friendship with my girls.
I love pictures of sunsets. This particular sunset marked the end of an amazing day, but as sure as it set over the lake, the sun rose again on the other side of the night. When you look at the photo, unless you know the exact location and directional orientation, you don’t know whether it’s a sunrise or a sunset. So I realize it is with life — every end holds within it a new beginning and there is beauty in both.
Though I know this transition will not be easy and I approach it with mixed emotions, I cling to the idea that, for us, the sun is rising.
Life with teenagers requires some flexibility. No, as the parent you really don’t have to bend, but if you’re wise, you’ll figure out which things are deal breakers and which are not. Fighting with your teen over minor issues will ruin both your lives. Is that really what you want them to remember about their last few years at home? Pick your battles. Here, in no particular order, are the issues I consider minor in the grand scheme of things.
Weight Barring a serious health issue, never mention weight, especially to a teenage girl. If they have an extra pound or two, I promise you they are more than aware of it. To point it out to them is to add insult to injury. My girls have never struggled with weight, but I did and I remember once my mother mentioned it to me. Bad idea.
Language I never tolerate the Lord’s name taken in vain, but words like crap,sucks,piss, the occasional damn or hell do not freak me out. Even on occasion, in a time of great stress, something stronger — as long as it’s around close friends and/or family and not in public. The teenage years are arguably the most difficult of life; the pressures are greater at younger ages than ever before. If they are otherwise walking the straight and narrow, sometimes it may be wise to allow them to let off a little steam in a safe environment.
Hair Length, color, style. My youngest daughter has twice dyed her hair: the first time it was fuschia; the second time it was a purple streak down the back. She had fun, it’s gone now. No harm, no foul.
Piercings We’ve done more ear piercings that I can count, including cartilage and one belly button. It’s not my taste, but both my girls are clean-cut lovely young ladies; my 16-year-old just likes to pierce her ears; my 19-year-old pierced her belly button as a reward for straight As her senior year. It’s not a moral issue.
Sorry if some of these offend, but I’ve got two bright, warm, loving and morally upright kids, so it’s working for us. And if you want to be offended again, come back for Part Two later this week.
Disclaimer: This post in no way constitutes professional advice and is not endorsed by the Surgeon General, American Psychological Association or Dr. Phil. I do, however have a sister and brother-in-law who are psychiatrists and they probably agree with me on most of these points, so it’s all good.
e as a slob.
