Husband and I became parents in our 30s, after many years of living on our own and taking care of ourselves, (mostly) in a capable and responsible fashion. When we agreed it was time to start a family, we took what we considered to be the thorough, adult route to preparing ourselves...including digesting the Prenatal Bible--I refer, of course, to the classic What to Expect When You're Expecting--cover-to cover, taking a Getting Ready for Your Baby's Birth class together, etc. However, even after all that studying, the actual process of continually caring for a tiny, helpless newborn still came as quite a rude shock to us at first. Sure, babies are adorable and all, but man, are they needy little blanketfuls of hungry, sleepy, cranky, wet, messy...what? oh yeah, "bundles of joy"! People always gush about the Big Milestones that kids reach, like crawling, and walking, and talking, and those are definitely great. But I have to admit, I enjoyed some of those less-celebrated-but-more-practical achievements even more. Like...holding a spoon. (Bonus: aiming some food in the vicinity of your mouth...so Mom can eat, too!) Or dressing yourself. (Eliminating the delightful daily wrestling match that involves shoving flailing limbs into small clothing-holes.) Each time my sons learned to do something on their own, as toddlers or preschoolers, I felt pride for their accomplishment...mixed with a bit of relief, that one more Mommy-To-Do had been removed from my list. ("Outsourced", if you will. I became more of a...Quality Control Manager--"No, honey, even though your utensil skills are now excellent, you may not dip Nutella from the jar. But yes, you may wear your Thomas the Tank Engine shirt for the 75th straight day. Don't forget the pants, too".)
And while no one would accuse me of acting all misty and nostalgic about those ‘precious bygone days’ (“Oh, sweetie, remember when you were so dependent on me that I had to wipe your nose for you?’ Good times! Or…not) lately this whole "Growing Up" thing has gotten a bit out of hand. For example, it was absolutely lovely when Riley at long last mastered tying his own shoes. I applauded when Derek got tall enough to reach the glassware and the freezer so he could get his own cold drink. And let's face it, I did an unrestrained Happy Dance when both boys took over making their own lunches. But on one recent morning, I had to get up with Derek before school because Husband left for work at some uncivilized hour for a conference call with China or Timbuktu or somewhere. (I know, I know: "what kind of neglectful, uncaring mother doesn't see her firstborn child off to school every day without fail?" Well, I'll tell you--the kind who is NOT a cheerful morning person, and enjoys sleeping until 7:30, that's who. See, I can be downright belligerent before coffee, which does not add up to quality mother/son bonding time. So there!) Anyway, somehow the alarm that I'd set the night before failed to go off and wake me, so I didn't actually get out of bed until 7:10. I found Derek, who had risen when his own alarm rang at 6:45, efficiently packing up his school supplies in order to leave the house at 7:20 and walk down to the bus stop. He had already fed himself. He politely declined my offer to drive him to the end of the street. In fact, I could have remained wrapped up in my cozy warm comforter, and he would have managed just fine on his own with no Parental Supervision whatsoever. Jeez Louise, can you say "obsolete"?
Okay, so that's my Middle Schooler, exercising his burgeoning maturity and independence. Fine. But Riley's still my baby and needs my guidance and assistance for many things, right? So I thought...until later that same week, after they had both arrived home from school, and Riley was itching to do his homework. (Why on earth would he want to do that? If I recall, "to get it out of the way" was the answer I got...) I was in the middle of something else and couldn't help him immediately, so I shooed him away with the assurance that we'd get around to it shortly. When I finished whatever task I'd need to "get out of the way", I informed him I was ready and eager to tackle those Spelling Words now. "Oh, you don't have to, Mom," he blithely informed me. I geared up for an argument along the lines of "of course we do, spelling is important, your teacher is expecting this assignment, blah, blah, blah." Before I could work up a good head of steam for the lecture, he quickly added, "I already sorted and wrote my words...with Derek!" (Who stood beside him, nodding solemnly--but with a giant, self-important grin on his face.) Then, just in case I wasn't feeling useless enough, he finished with, "And I practiced the ones I got wrong, too!" Alrighty, then...I'll just go take a nap, or something...
So there's an emotional conflict raging here: on the one hand, I'm very pleased with the initiative they're showing, and with the new skills they're demonstrating. But on the other hand, don't they need their Mommy anymore? I suppose this is all part of the maturing (for them) and letting go (for me) process that every parent endures as their children get older. (‘Letting go’ in this case being a special code for ‘holding on tightly with both hands and not loosening up even an inch’…wait, that’s not right, is it? Nevermind…) I've decided to look at the bright side (besides the obvious fact that no one’s driving…yet): I now have more time available to catch up on some reading, maybe do a crossword puzzle...and eat Nutella right from the jar (because the tough job of Parent does still come with some perks). And if they need me, they know just where to find me…
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