Endings and Beginnings

Sitting at my desk this morning, I spy the first golden tipped leaves peeking out atop the branches of the maple tree outside my window. Summer is waning.

I don’t ache at summer’s end as much as I once did, facing the prospect of a new school year with all its attendant worries. During the years my son was in school, hating every minute of it, each day brought its own set of difficulties. (For those mothers dreading September for similar reasons - my heart is with you.)

Nor do I despair as the pages of my calendar suddenly fill to the brim with appointments and rehearsals and work schedules.  While September will bring a slight uptick in the amount of my activity, the dailiness of life won’t change very much, and that’s alright with me.

I anticipate the beauty of autumn days, the rainbow hue of colored leaves, crisp cool air on the morning walk. Autumn brings pleasures that suit me well: warm sweaters and cozy blankets, savory stews in the slow cooker, the glow of firelight at early evening.  I plan to relish them all, using each one to stave off anticipatory fears of another bitter and punishing winter.

But before summer ends, we have the joy of a visit from our son and his family, two weeks with the patter of little feet running through the house each morning, of reading favorite stories, playing games of make believe, of taking walks through the neighborhood. Watching my son with his own son is a pleasure I could never have anticipated, especially when I think of the unhappy teenager that once stalked through the house every August, already angry at the prospect of school days lying in wait. Who would have guessed that years later he would devote such patience, caring, dedication, imagination, and  unending devotion to a small child of his own?

Certainly not me. And while I adore every minute of the time I spend with my grandson, am proud and amazed at his charm, his intelligence, his beautiful clear skin and lovely little voice, it is still my own son who holds pride of place in my heart.  Because he belongs to me in a way my grandson cannot.

When my son was young, I loved summer vacations, loved having him home with me, loved the freedom to do what we wanted to do without the restriction of school calendars. As much as he disliked going back to school, I disliked it as well, because it meant giving up all that time with him during the day, meant turning his care over to someone else, entrusting him to a world fraught with the possibility of hurt. Like those first gold-tinged leave on my maple tree this morning, those school days were the foreshadowing of the end of our halcyon days of summer together and a reminder that one day he would be grown and living his own life apart and away from me.

Each school year brings parents closer to that time when their children will leave the nest and set out on their own path through life.  It’s part of the natural plan, like the change of season. Our roles as parents wane over the years, we become less a vital part of our children’s daily lives and more of a (hopefully!) pleasant presence in the back of their minds.

It’s the way it’s supposed to be.

With every end, there is a beginning. Yes, my son grew up and moved far away and we see each other only a few times a year instead of every day. But here is a wonderful beginning in this beautiful child of his. I take comfort in that, just as I take comfort in the pleasures of fall as way of gathering strength for the the winter ahead.

In knowing that the cycle begins again, and continues never-ending through all of time.

Tender at the Broken Places

Driving along yesterday afternoon I glanced in my rear view mirror and noticed the familiar double hood scoops of a late 1990’s model black Pontiac  Trans Am following close behind me, the same car my son drove from the time he graduated high school until he sold it seven years later. It wasn’t exactly the same - none of the custom charcoal gray striping or badging my son designed for his - but it gave me a little start nonetheless to see that familiar “face” in my mirror. I was surprised to find my eyes filled with tears. Suddenly I missed my son so much - it was an ache in the pit of my stomach, the same ache I used to get driving home after work and knowing his car wouldn’t be in the driveway, the same ache I felt getting on the airplane after I visited him when he first left for college. My heart felt so tender in that moment, my emotions gathered in a huge lump in my throat.

When all this happened, I was on my way to meet my stepmother for lunch. I had not seen her since we parted after my dad’s death in November. We’ve talked on the phone, texted and emailed occasionally. I am always mindful of her words the day I left last November- “Please don’t forget about me,” she said. “I won’t,” I promised. And I have not. But I was anxious about seeing her again, seeing her without my dad. I couldn’t help remembering what we went through together just the two of us in those strange three days when we said goodbye to him. I anticipated being washed in sadness and feeling lonely and grief stricken all over again.

But we hugged and smiled through lunch, and we talked about her children and grandchildren - her new great-grandson whom she had come to Michigan to meet for the first time. I told her my best Connor stories and showed her pictures and videos. She told me she’s had some cardiac problems, and I wonder how much she neglected her own health in these last few years as she expended so much time and energy caring for my dad.

I felt sadness, but not as much as I had expected.

My son has been gone from home a long time, and I feel like I’ve come to terms with all that. I don’t get choked up at the airport anymore. I don’t constantly wonder where he is and what he’s doing. He has a good life, a happy family, and although I think of him daily, it’s most often with a sense of satisfaction rather than longing or angst.

My dad has been dead for nine months, and I thought I’d come to terms with all that too. But I realized that there will always be tender places in my heart for those precious things that are no longer with me - my son’s childhood and youth, my father’s warm and loving spirit. It’s like the bone in my elbow, the one I cracked 10 winters ago in a fall on an icy sidewalk. When I stretch or strain it too much, there’s a sudden, sharp twinge of pain followed by a few moments of achy tenderness. In a reflex movement, I reach over with my other hand and massage it gently. “There there,” I say with my protective touch. “Just calm down, it will be alright."

When we get those little soul-aches, those episodes of wistfulness and longing, where do we go for comfort? I spent today looking for that kind of comforting. I wasn’t terribly successful - not in line at the Secretary of State, not fighting traffic on the well-traveled road to my mother’s house, not shopping for groceries in the local supermarket.

But a cooler breeze is blowing this evening, taking the humid summer air along with it. It’s quiet on the deck, and my new chairs are soft and enveloping. A steady parade of neighbors pass by, their happy dogs pulling them along, and we greet each other with smiles and nods.

All of us on this road of life together, each of us with our own tender places in need of a little loving care.

May we find it and take comfort in it.

Pieces from the Past: Kite Strings

“When I think about why people have children, I realize how little it should have to do with the future. If, before any children are conceived, we knew that our reward for raising them would be perhaps several phone calls a month, a very occasional visit, and the sense of having once been important in their lives, we might not do it. But if we realize that the rewards are given during the raising, we will calculate the cost differently. My children have taught me more than I have taught them, given me more joy than I have given them, and their not being present or even much aware of me now does not alter this.” from The Journal Keeper, by Phyllis Theroux Right before my son’s senior year in high school, my friend gave me a framed reprint of the poem titled “Children Are Like Kites.” You may know it -the gist of it is that you spend years preparing children to “get off the ground”; you run with them, patch them up when they’re torn, pick them up off the ground countless times. You let the string out a bit at a time, until finally they’re airborne. At last the “kite becomes more distant, and you know it won’t be long before that beautiful creature will snap the lifeline that binds you together and it will soar as it was meant to war - free and alone."

By the time you get to this part of the poem, you’re choking back tears. Even now, some 12 years later, I get teary eyed reading those last few words.

But then there’s the final sentence: Only then do you know that you have done your job.

I believe that’s true. It’s in the letting go that a parent really comes to know what they’re made of. If you’ve done your job well, when you read that very last line you’ll dry your tears, stand up a little straighter, take a deep breath, and move on.

Most of you know that my husband and I are only children, and in terms of feeling responsible for their parents happiness, I think the burden on an only child is rather great. My parents and my husbands parents were as different as night and day in their child-rearing styles and philosophies, but the outcome on each side was exactly the same. Both of us always felt the need to do whatever it took to make our parents happy, even if that might mean giving up something we desired for our own lives.

When we got married, we had a kind of unspoken agreement - if/when we had children, we would not stand in their way, would not make them feel as if our lives depended on their constant presence, not inspire guilt or worry about what we’d do without them.

We would let them break the kite string and soar.

We tried really hard to do that, and I think we succeeded pretty well - in fact, sometimes I laugh at just how well we succeeded. Our only son left home at 18 to attend school in Florida,  traveled halfway around the world on several occasions, then met and married a young woman from a completely different culture. He lived in Florida for 12 years before moving to Texas three years ago.  I’m sure our parents were stunned by his epic journey, and they probably wonder why in the world we let him do those things.

There’s nothing easy about this process. There’s no magic pill you can take to stop missing your children, to keep your heart from aching when you’re apart on birthdays and holidays, to prevent you from wondering what they’re doing or how their day is going, if they’re in a bad mood or on top of the world. I realize that I’ve always been overly involved in my own mother’s life, and because of circumstance, will become even more involved from now on as she draws closer to the end of it. Sometimes it hurts that I will probably never have that kind of relationship with my own child, that I will likely rely on the “kindness of strangers” to shepherd me through old age.

But on closer reflection, I realize my son’s fierce independence actually provides me with a kind of gift my parents couldn’t give me - it allows me to be responsible for my own life in a way their neediness never could. So I watch my son plan his future and take charge of his dreams, and I too learn how to soar.

Phyllis Theroux said it best in the passage I quoted at the start of this piece: My children have taught me more than I have taught them, given me more joy than I have given them, and their not being present or even much aware of me now does not alter this.

Watching a beautiful, strong, colorful kite waving proudly in the breeze is worth everything, and one of life’s greatest experiences.

I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.