Epilogue

It was late for us, nearing 11 and I was contentedly working on a puzzle when Todd finally came and sat beside me.  I suggested he read my latest blog since it was about our family.  He asked if it would make him cry.  Not completely forthcoming, I lied.  No, you’ll be fine.  But then I heard him start sniffling in the quiet dark of the evening on the couch beside me and I felt a little chagrined.  Maybe just dust from working in the yard all night?  When he finished he didn’t say a word.  I realized he was trying to compose himself.  Why do you have to write like that, he wanted to know.  Like what?  I was just writing what was going on.

He doesn’t take long to get ready for bed, a little teeth brushing, sets his glasses on our headboard, done.  Me, I’ve got contacts and a skin care routine.  Flossing.  Lotion.  It takes a minute.  But even after all this time to catch his breath, he was still sniffling.  So we laid there in the dark while I asked what he was thinking.  He confirmed what I’d just written about.  It’s just hard to believe it’s all ending, that our kids are leaving.  He confessed he has a lot of regrets about his relationship with Mitchell.  I knew this was the crux of his breakdown, and at this point I left him with his thoughts. I knew they were too raw to talk about then, it was also for him to sort out alone.  I have regrets of my own to figure out.

But the next morning on our walk we talked a bit more.  He revealed his regrets at having had pushed so much, that they’d butted heads so often.  And I asked him why he thought that was.  Too much alike or too different?  Probably too much alike.  He could see himself in Mitchell.  Todd’s always confessed his greatest weakness is laziness.  Which, if you know him, you’d never guess.  But I know what he’s talking about.  Not that I agree, just that I know how hard some things are for him to get going on.  He’s afraid that with all his potential, the strengths and opportunities Mitchell has been given, that he’s just wasting them.  Because he’s been there himself.  And that’s not hard to understand.  But I reminded him that our parents let us fail.  That we’ve learned because we were allowed to have regrets of our own.  We can’t take that from our kids.  Our parents insisted we make our own choices.  And that we deal with the consequences.

I know Todd wishes he hadn’t pushed so hard.  But that’s more a lesson for us than for Mitchell.  In so many ways we thought we knew what was best, that certain situations required intervention, or at least our input.

And yet, in nearly every single case, we were wrong.  I’ll admit we’ve insisted on a few things like thank you notes, chores, applying for jobs and follow-up with his BYU scholarship (that he almost lost because he didn’t read the fine print, good grief), but most things are his to own.  Scouts, still not done, he’s got a couple months.  Duty to God, doubtful.  Stack of graduation cards to acknowledge, someday.  Checks to cash, hmmm… Room decluttering so it can become our guest room, not happening.  Sigh.  There’s more, you’re parents, you know there’s more.  But I think what we’re learning is who cares.

I guess we’re just seeing that all that really, really matters is that he knows we love him, that we’re tight, that we’re going to be here.  Not hovering, but in the background.  To answer questions, to give some feedback when he asks for it.  To just teach but then stay out of the way.  I’m not saying we’re not interested in some of his choices, we’re just learning to remain patiently behind the curtain waiting to see how it all plays out.  So often we’ve concerned ourselves with the outcomes of decisions that we’ve failed to remember our real desired outcome, which is to maintain a solid relationship of love and acceptance within our family, between each other and with our kids.

I would hate to think a child would hide something because he didn’t feel safe, because she wasn’t sure what our reaction would be.  How sad.  But I think we’re still learning how to be completely safe, to love unconditionally.  I think that’s what Todd was getting at.  Our kids are leaving, it’s going so fast, are we good?  Do they know how much we love them?  Especially the ones, like with him and Mitchell, where they haven’t seen eye to eye?  Will what we’ve tried to do be enough?  Will he leave knowing how proud we are?  How much potential we see in him?  That we absolutely know he’ll do great?  There’s no way to have him leave without regret, those are our issues to own.  But we can send him off assured that he has always been loved, that we will continue to love him through whatever he does or doesn’t do.  We can help him know he’s to live out his own dreams, that we trust he’ll do his best.

I think this was what brought on the quiet tears.  Knowing now what we have so poignantly and slowly—ever so slowly—been learning over the years.  That none of that stuff we’d been concerned about really, really matters.  And we regret that we even made issues out of any of it.  But how do you know, as a young parent, when to prod and when to stand back?  When you’re encouraging and when it’s nagging?  When to drop your own dreams for your kids and when to let them pursue their own?  We’re still learning, and I think Todd thinks we’re out of time.  We only have two months left.  I think that’s what he was mourning.

But what I told him was this.  You still have two months.  Tell him.  Tell him how proud you are.  Tell him how much you love him.  Tell him nothing has brought you more happiness than to be his dad.  Show him.  Wrap him in your arms and remind him you will always, always love him.  Simply because he’s your son.

I know it’s not much.  We’re reeling from seventeen plus years of botched days and badly-handled situations.  But I hope we can somehow still convey to him the depth of our love.  That even though we didn’t always go about it the “right” way (whatever that is), we have always, always parented from our hearts, with love.  So maybe there’s still time.  It’s not the absolute end, it’s—like all the cheesy graduation speeches relay—simply a transition.  For him and for us.  To let go even more.  To let him live unabashedly, fearlessly, to move forward knowing his parents absolutely love him, that no matter what mistakes he makes, regardless of setbacks and disappointments, we’re here.  I think that’s what Todd wishes he had said so many years ago.  But couldn’t.  I think parenting is more about teaching the parents than teaching the kids, and it’s taken us some time to get here.  And we’re just sorry it’s taken so long.  I think that’s what Todd was trying to tell me.

The emotions of May

It’s not as bad as it was a couple years ago, but I can’t pretend life is just marching on as if all my littles were back in elementary school and we’re simply looking forward to a few weeks of summer vacation with all to resume as it should in a couple of months.

I think my trigger was downloading a bunch of pictures from Andrew’s freshman year of college.  As I was looking through his Facebook pages, I ran across some he’d been tagged in that I’d never even seen.  Some from his senior year of high school with his track buddies, his prom group, dates with long-time friends. Funny poses, young people I’ve loved forever, a few that I hadn’t remembered but then I did. Others went back to when he was 14 and on a pioneer trek.  He and his friends (who are now all on missions) look so little and obviously so young.  He was making a tortilla on a rock in his pioneer clothes.  I had to stop and take it in.  This was a period of his life when I don’t know that I really knew him, so I took some time.  Then some of our closest family friends posted pictures of him and the others from a New Year’s Eve several years back.  And another when they were all gathered around a table eating little kid lunch food, I think he may have been six.  Memories came reeling in just like that.  I was back in my friend’s kitchen.  I was that young mom all over again.  So glad that we had let them make such grand messes.  Mostly the basement stays clean now.  So I love that as a young family we somehow had the foresight to allow popcorn and ice cream and drinks and mattresses to fill the belly of our basement; our house will never don the pages of those slick magazines, but it’s been lived in and is as comfy as an old pair of slippers.  It was a video in quick motion, panning over years and decades with friends he’d had—we’d had—who had lived in our house beside us.  In just a few minutes a slew of memories reminded me of how quickly today turns into yesterday.  As all moms of older kids can so keenly attest.

After a few minutes of reminiscing, I turned back to the task at hand and continued sending shot after shot to Costco for printing, but got stuck every so often, scenes I was glimpsing for the first time and others that were so familiar.  How I absolutely adore the people in each photo, I’ve loved their friends like my own kids, and I couldn’t help but return to my young mom memories, stretching this undertaking throughout the morning.  Ridiculous. Because it awoke emotions I’d been squelching or at least ignoring all spring.

Buffered by a to-do list I knew I’d never complete, May had come and gone without me having to contend with the deep feelings that the season should evoke.  I endured by quietly keeping abreast of each day’s obligations, looking just far enough ahead to send out the next birthday card, to make sure we had food for the next gathering, that beds for the next group were made, that I had the right time for each concert and award assembly, and that I sent the prescribed number of cookies for each celebration.  Without much time on my own, I simply set aside surmising what the ramifications of the month’s festivities would mean.

But now that the groups of company have subsided, the birthdays and celebrations have come and gone, the camping gear is all aired out and stashed away, I’ve dealt with the aftermath of sheets and towels along with a mother load of recycling and Good Will donations, I exhale as we shift gears.  Of course we still have trips coming up, we have a fully stocked calendar with commitments all over the place, but it’s the doable kind of month, I see some white.  And so I know I’m going to have to face the inevitable.

Now that all the hubbub has died down, it’s time to re-focus on Mitchell a little, to assess what he needs as he prepares to launch.  And this is where I might start to feel.  As I had earlier in the year when he was starting his last semester of high school.  Those early winter months are emptier and we’re home more, and I consciously took snapshots in my mind of these easy, breezy everyday moments that I knew I’d want to cinch in a tightly drawn remembrance sack.  I still see them, they’re not lost yet, but I’m making a point to notice them more because I know we don’t have much time left.  I haven’t cried, I’m still not there yet.  I’m tentatively hoping we can make this transition riding on the wings of jubilant anticipation of a great adventure instead.

But I know myself.  And that my heart has been welded to this kid since the moment I first held him as a 9 lb 2 oz newborn.  He was a dream baby, a wildly creative, ingenious, and messy toddler and kid.  And teenager.  He’s headstrong and intelligent, infuriatingly stubborn and intoxicatingly sweet.  Smarter than anyone I know, it makes me laugh to see him seemingly incompetent when it comes to real life application.  He’s fiercely independent, yet calls on us for the tiniest complexities of daily living.  We can’t stay upset with one another, our hearts are just too soft for that.  And for each other.  His absence will leave a hole in our family, as every departing child does. I thought I’d be used to the idea by now, what with Andrew having been gone so long.  But this is almost harder in a way because I know what to expect.  I’m remembering that I’ll never have times quite like these again.

Just the other day, after a weekend wedding celebration, he continued swing dancing with his sisters in the kitchen, dodging both me and the open cabinet doors.  I loved the enamored look on our little 10 year-old’s face, to be in favor with her usually-distant older brother.  Forties music was blasting from Pandora and I was in my happy place.  His friends were over just the other night, eating my cookies and playing Attack and watching Alone with us between moves.  A Thursday not long ago he attended a political rally and downloaded, engaging all of us and our company over dinner.  Lately we’ve talked about classes he’ll want to take, what his plans are for the upcoming year and beyond.  We’ve sat outside chatting on the back porch, we’ve huddled close by the fire late at night.  We’ve made pizzas in our little brick oven with friends.  We’ve written to Andrew and watched movies as a family.  We’ve gone on day trips and out to eat and on our Sunday walks in nature.  We’ve camped and sat talking with friends who are like his aunts and uncles.  We’ve worked in the yard nearly every evening since it’s been warm. I love that he works right beside us and that he talks as he follows us around.  I love how he tends to his little herbs.  And how he knows he still has to mow and weed even though he’s no longer in high school.  I love that we’ve played games and eaten ice cream and cooked together, that we’ve watched stand up comedy and discussed the news.  I’m going to miss it all so much because I’m living my dream.  It’s been such a good phase for our family.  One of our best.  We’ve loved having teenagers so much, these have been my contented years, our pay-off years, my favorite so far.  I worry that it will never be this good again.  I love that he and his 15 year-old sister are tight, that they’re each others’ safe haven; nothing warms my heart like seeing them together.  I love sending them off at 6:15 every morning together, the way he takes care of her and watches out for her.  I love seeing them dance and tease together and cuddle together.  I love that they take off to shop together, that they have adopted values of thrift and industry and creativity.  I love it when their friends—who feel just like cousins—all come together and our family expands.  I will miss them almost as much.  I love our talks about every subject under the rainbow.  I love the controversial ones the most because I value his opinion and angle. I love that our kids are open to talking about all sorts of things, even the hard stuff.  I love our messy kitchen, the way they dig through our pantry and make treats with their friends.  I love believing our home feels like their home.  I love it all so much, and so I’m trying to not let the everyday days just absorb into another week.  I’ve lived through a few summers with kids now.  The older they get, the faster they go.

And I’ve lived long enough to know what comes next.

Losing your first-born just knocks the wind out of you, but what about the next? I’m pretty level-headed, and you know I’m not sentimental.  Except when it comes to being a mom.  Like you, I see my kids as my greatest investment.  While I don’t take credit for their successes, and I can’t take their short-comings personally, it’s the one thing (besides my marriage) I do that really even matters.  And so with another son leaving, I mourn the life we’ve shared, the regular days that are now relegated to only memories.  I gave so much, I held back more than I wanted but less than I needed to.  I cared so much, I wonder if it showed.  I tried so hard, I wish I could do it all over again.  Better this time.  But I’m so incredibly grateful for even the blunder-filled days, the days I wanted to wish away, the exhaustion, the exasperation of it all.  Because we’re good.  It works out.  I just thought it’d get easier to say goodbye to it all the second time around. 

I feel like I’m losing my grip on motherhood.  I want to stay exactly where we are.  And yet you know I don’t.  I absolutely can’t wait to hear how his first day of college goes, if he’ll think it’s hard, what job he’ll find, what he’ll do with his roommates on the weekends, who he’ll meet, what he’ll discover about himself.  We long for him to experience what we did as freshmen, to fall in love, to meet amazing people who may be his friends for the rest of his life, to realize how much there is to learn.  We want him to figure out what he believes.  We want him to own that, to know for himself.  You know that’s what we want.

And yet, for just another day, I’ll gladly remind him it’s his day to mow and that the dishes need to be unloaded again.  I’ll try to remember where he’s working and what time he said he’d be home.  I’ll take his tall, gentle hugs, his late nighttime talks, his enthusiasm for his homemade guitar and his cardboard-plastic-wrapped boat.  I’ll bask in his smile and listen attentively as he talks about the girl he likes.  I’ll chuckle inwardly as he learns the basics I took for granted he knew.  I’ll forgive the piles of clothes that have littered his bedroom floor for years.  And I’ll leave the cobweb above his window.  Just because it’s so fitting. For now I’ll pretend it’s just another ordinary summer day, that we’ll be able to keep doing this for as long as we want.  For just as long as I can, I’ll take swing dancing in the kitchen.  And ice cream in the basement.