I just watched my only child graduate from high school. It was an emotional roller coaster, or, as his classmates would say, it brought all the feels (and I copped some feels that weren’t really fun to experience!). I have burst into tears and gushed over my conversations with him – all in the same phone calls to my inner circle. There ought to be a parent version of Dr. Suess’s graduation gift staple “Oh, The Places You’ll Go”, and here is what I think the chapters should look like:
Grief: from the moment my son moved out, I became a stellar Kleenex customer (though paper towels and dishcloths will do in a pinch). I no longer see every day the person I have the most profound love for. I don’t cry about this every day anymore, but I still put in some tears several times a week. I thinking of tracking this on a spreadsheet. Too much?
Freedom: I haven’t spent an hour in the kitchen making a nutritious dinner featuring protein, green veg and a complex carb since Will left, and it is incredibly freeing (though this goes in my husband’s grief column). Our wi-fi is no longer choked every evening by the X-Box. I can now walk around the house in whatever state of undress strikes me. I am no longer hostage to seeing the latest animated kids’ movie and helping with homework.
Purposelessness: Even though Will wasn’t planned and I was a single mom for most of his upbringing, raising Will was the most fulfilling time of my life. I parented with the end goal of a Christian, law-abiding, kind, and brave man. I was the only mom on Cub Scout camping trips. I was a classroom volunteer throughout Will’s elementary school years. I took the assignment God handed me in raising a son joyfully and seriously. Now that Will has moved out, I am left with… going to the office? Ugh. NOT the same sense of purpose at all.
Gratitude: When I watched my now 6-foot-tall son walk across the stage to receive his diploma, I beamed with pride (albeit with tears streaming down my face). Will had already lined up a full-time job and wanted to wait on college for a semester or two. When I returned home and went back to church, all of us in my small group prayed for children who struggled academically, who weren’t employed, who wouldn’t move out, and one that was in legal trouble. Oh Lord, I prayed silently, I am so sorry that I am so ungrateful. Thank you for making Will the man he is. I don’t mean to be ungrateful.
Worry: My son now faces some very grown-up issues. He has a girlfriend, who I suspect he loves deeply. It reminds me of my first serious relationship in college that ended disastrously (I didn’t end up on Snapped or anything, but it was not fun). I have an impulse to try to shield my son from pain. But then I wonder if maybe he’s been blessed with a high school sweetheart that will evolve into a loving wife for him. Maybe this is good? I can debate this issue all day to myself if I allow myself to.
Fear: I’m burying this one because it’s the emotion I am least proud of – my fear of aging. Our eldest and her husband are trying to conceive their first child. This will make me a grandmother! This seems obvious to everyone around me, but it shocks me – how can I be a grandmother? I listen to metal and dance music! This one gets even worse when I observe the back row of the church sanctuary before our worship service starts (which I secretly refer to as Death Row). This row houses several unaccompanied senior-aged ladies, and it’s not a cute sight. One of them may not physically be able to smile, and during the “rise and greet your neighbor” portion, she sits with her arms crossed in front of her, her football helmet of gray hair moving only once when I made eye contact with her one Sunday and smiled, and she called to me “Do not come and hug me please!”. Several of these women are extremely unhealthy looking. When their phones go off during the service, they 1) don’t realize it’s theirs until the pastor stops speaking and 2) somehow don’t remember how to silence it, even though this happens to each of them several times per month. Yet another one comments just loudly enough for everyone to hear which ladies are wearing something that is too short or low cut. I pray silently every Sunday that I don’t become like one of the Death Row ladies.
Feeling any of these yourself? Well Mommas, feel free to blurt it out here! It feels kind of good!
Written by Meredith 