A friend mentioned on Sunday how fast time is going, her oldest is turning 11 in another month or so and she only has 7 more years to teach him everything. I commiserated, reminding her I only have 3 weeks.
And I’ve known for a long, long time that time was winding down. I’ve known it all along really. But even after all these years, after all the tidbits we’ve tried to engrain in him, I feel like I’m going into my thesis defense as a grad student, but this time as a mom. Will I pass? Did I complete all the requirements? Did I do what I was supposed to do? Will someone catch on that I really had no idea what I was doing? But what do you do? Cramming never worked for me, and I doubt he’d pay attention to a condensed version of Life 101 at this point. Plus I hardly ever see him. But I know he’s mostly excited but apprehensive at the same time. Real life has few safety nets, and I think it’s hitting him that he’s going to have to rely on his own resourcefulness. I imagine most young adults have some of these thoughts.
It’s his 18th birthday. And he leaves for BYU at the end of the month. Our alma mater, his school of choice (with a little sales-pitch here and there from us, I’ll admit it). Where we met. Hopefully he’ll at least date. People keep asking us in that voice how we’re doing with it all. And we have to be honest. We’re fine. I hate that life is changing, I’ll give you that. But it’s been changing ever since he went to high school. At least that’s when it started to hit me because time sort of accelerated. We’re good with it all because we’re so excited for him. We loved college and being on our own, letting go of what people assumed we were, learning. BYU was my dream come true and I relished my time there—maybe more than most—and recall many still-light evenings making my way across campus, silently yet genuinely grateful for the chance to be there. That’s our backdrop, we have so many happy memories and look forward to him making some of his own. And why we’re able to cheerfully and maybe even casually say good bye. We just hope he’ll call and let us know what he’s up to.
It’s kind of weird backing off as mom. He’s been bigger than me since 8th grade. He’s been like a roommate to us instead of a son in a lot of ways over the past few years. I’m even shy around him once in awhile. I’ve never spent a lot of time around guys his age. Up close anyway, never having had any brothers or close cousins. So roles are subtly changing, and I think we’re mostly just looking forward to his new experiences, anxious to hear all about it.
Over the years as a mom, I’ve always felt my calling was to be a teacher because that seems to sum up what we do as parents. Foremost we wanted to provide a nurturing environment, to help the kids feel secure and loved and valued, and that entails preparing them to leave as confident and competent young adults. But even more than that, and this is what’s hard. Anyone can teach life skills, but it’s not easy to teach them to be humble, to think of others’ feelings, to be selfless, to be compassionate, to be kind. That’s the kind of stuff I worry and wonder about. I feel like I missed some teaching moments along the way. And I can’t help but wonder how they’ll all do without me reminding them. I won’t be able to be there at their “comps” (comprehensive exams), and I cross my fingers they were paying attention. And that they were listening more than watching. But I know that’s not how it works. I think that’s why I worry. Because we all know kids pick up on our actions more than our words. And yet, that’s why I’m grateful to have had so many teacher-aids in their school of life. So many stellar examples of what empathy and humility look like. What it means to be a dad and a man. How to treat others, even the hard others. We’ve had friends, as he has, over the years who have been on our team, who have backed up what we’ve tried to teach. There’s nothing like Andrew coming home from his workout, for instance, with new tips for being a healthy runner, telling me what kinds of foods his coach suggests, how a lot of it is mindfulness, what kinds of stretches work best, etc. I majored in health. I ran track. I thought I’d told him all that. No matter. At least he’s got it now. I’ve got to remember to thank all the tutors he’s had along the road.
We’ve tried to teach them basic skills to be self-reliant. And I think he’d make it if he were stranded in the wilderness. He’s been packing his bags and playing with knives and fire for as long as I can remember. When he’s stayed alone at home he’s forgotten to take care of the dogs or lock the door, and we’ve woken up with the garage door wide open, lights blazing after he’s been working on his knives late into the night many mornings. But that’s suburbia. Lost in the back country, I’d trust him with my life.
It’s the housekeeping arena I think I failed him. I tried to teach them to make their beds back when they were younger. But it’s different than making a bed when I was a kid. Back then we had sheets, of course, then a blanket, and then a thin-ish bedspread. And you’d tuck the bedspread under the pillow to make a smooth, proper bump. These days there might be a top sheet, maybe not, but then only a lumpy, carefree comforter. I did show him nurses’ corners and he was impressed that that was the way to get sheets to stay tucked in. But he hardly ever makes his bed, let alone change his sheets (definitely not without me reminding him), let alone tuck them in like a nurse.
I am still giving bathroom tips. Reminding them of crevices that need to be checked. How to get off soap scum (I like Bon Ami with cheap shampoo), that the floor is still considered part of the bathroom, to use an old toothbrush for tough spots. I typed detailed instructions and taped them to the insides of the bathroom doors. I think just for me, no one else has ever read them.
I’ve tried over the years to get them to cook. We’ve tried assigned nights. Except that he gets home so late with all his sports and long work hours. I’d like to do better; I feel like I missed some opportunities and because of that he’ll resign himself to nasty processed, sugar- and salt-laden food stuffs when he has to cook for himself this year. He’s admitted that’s the one part he’s most nervous about. I can imagine. I didn’t know squat when I had to start cooking for myself back as a college sophomore and even as a new wife my repertoire was pretty sketchy.
I think he and the others will be ok in the textiles department, not great, but passable. I sometimes see their white church shirts in with their black church socks. Not what I had taught, but I suppose they’re trying be efficient (another lesson I’ve tried to instill in them, hard to decide which value trumps in a tricky situation, I get it). They’re good with ironing. Only because I won’t do something for them that they can handle on their own. No idea about sewing, that worries me a bit. Although Andrew makes knife sheathes by hand, so I suppose he can apply those tactics to attaching a button. I notice they don’t know a thing about stain removal. Probably because I rarely spend much time on things like that myself. But I need to remember to tell him about collars on white shirts before he leaves.
I wonder who will do the dishes in his apartment. Maybe the other roommate. The one whose mom was on it, who taught him that they can go right in the dishwasher. (Not to make excuses, but I feel like we were always waiting for the one who was on Empty Dishwasher so others could then load. The timing just never quite seemed to match up.) Maybe they all had moms like me, too little too late. I’m sure they’ll figure it out.
We tried to help him understand why it’s important to be committed when you give your word. Why you do your best instead of giving into your lazy side. Why it might work out to study before the day before the test. Or why starting a paper before the night before it’s due might feel stressful. Why you stick with something even if it’s a little uncomfortable or you’re not that great at it. Why it’s worth it to take a chance. Some of those lessons have backfired. But we we stand our ground.
We tried to teach them to work. They’ve complained that they are our servants. We’ve tried to teach them about gardening and weeding and looking for ways to serve. I know they’re never going to pick up trash when we aren’t carrying the bag for them. They balk at weeding. But so did Todd’s siblings. And now they talk gardens when they get together. There might be hope.
So at this point I feel like I’m earning about a C. Nice. Though I’ve always felt that, if nothing else, the kids do like to read. I read to Andrew from the time he was a tiny newborn, just under 7 pounds. I figured he’d like to hear words and his mom’s voice. I felt that reading aloud to my kids was one of the most important things I could do as a mom, plus it just fit me. That, I feel, is my one redemption. And that they all like broccoli. Then again, that was the easy stuff.
It’s the other stuff I still wonder about. Will he remember to hold doors open for the girls? And the less-abled? Will he read his scriptures? Will he ever change his sheets? Will he write thank you notes? Will he study? Will he ever eat vegetables? Will he go home teaching without his grown-up partner reminding him? Will he be generous and look out for others? Will he return the favor when someone shows up with cookies? Will he look around for ways to help? Will he filter and use discernment with entertainment? Will he treat others—especially women—with respect? Will he remember the values we’ve tried to instill in him? Will any of this matter to him?
But, as I always say, I just don’t think it’s helpful to stress about things I can’t do anything about. We’ve done what we can. He’s officially an adult. It wasn’t always pretty. It was far from perfect and not what I wanted it to look like all the time. I can’t say we always did our best. I know I faltered. I was weak, I was too tired. I was self-absorbed and distracted a lot of the time. I think we missed a few things over the years, but I guess he’ll just have to learn the rest on his own. Like we all do. But maybe it’s not over. Maybe there’s still more mothering ahead. I think so. Maybe he’ll ask for advice. Maybe I’ll just keep giving it to him for free. But I hope, like I wrote when he graduated, that he at least knows and remembers how much we love him. And that he knows that’s what was behind everything we tried to teach him.
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