My little sweetpea turned 3 years old in a whirlwind of pink, princessy celebration. On the same day everyone else celebrated St Patrick's Day. She was a doll. We had so much fun.
My little M-man, who is staring down his 5th birthday in a couple of weeks, got a new big-boy bed, graduating to a twin from a toddler bed. He looks so little again in his new bed, sweetly curled up and softly snoring.
And my 21-year-old, my man-child, called me to tell me he has sprouted his first gray hairs.
Good lord.
I was not prepared to hear that my son is old enough to have gray hair. Even if he is prematurely graying. I started dating his dad when we were 19 and 21, and his dad had a little gray then. I just forgot.
I am really, really lucky to get to raise another kid generation. But sometimes it is a little weird, a little unsteady, to straddle what feels like two parallel parenting worlds.
It's like I live 95 percent of my time in this world as a mom to young kids. Which makes me young. Me, young mom of young kids! Even though I am in my mid40s.
And then I get these sometimes-abrupt reminders that hey, I have an adult kid, too. Who, though he lives in another state, still need me sometimes. Even If it's just to tell me about gray hair.
Sometimes it's more than that, however. And I find myself dusting off figurative cobwebs in my head to figure out how to best handle grownup kid problems. Living in a world of preschoolers, snack and potty times, talking about our feelings and answering 100 "what's this" and "why, Mommy?" questions feels so very different and far away from talking to a grown child.
My oldest got himself into a bit of a jam recently. It was the kind of mess that he has to dig out of -- and from everything I can tell, he is dealing with it head-on. I am proud of him.
However, I struggled at time time with what to say to him. Yell at him because I was mad? Try to be the cool, understanding mom? Silent treatment?
Fortunately I happened to be visiting my awesome grandma and my wonderful aunt during this period, each of whom gave me good advice on how to constructively talk to him.
And we did have a good talk, and many good ones since. He is a good person who made mistakes. We all do.
It bothered me, though, that I felt so clunky in talking to him. For Pete's sake, I raised him. Why did it feel so awkward?
Was I a defective mom?
Yesterday I went to our neighborhood school to do a kindergarten tour for M-man. It's the same school my oldest attended 4th thru 8th grade.
When I got to the front door and pressed the buzzer to get in, I began to cry. Not in a sobbing way, just in that quiet way that surprises you.
I hadn't been to this school since my big guy graduated eighth grade in 2007.
I suddenly missed my now-grown boy badly, in that way that makes your chest ache a little.
But something else occurred. I didn't feel that that big parenting "gulf" I'd been feeling, the one that was nagging at me a little. I could clearly picture my then-little guy in his white-shirt and navy blue-pant Chicago Public Schools uniform, just as M-man wears now. Lots of good memories.
One of the long-time school administrators seemed to remember him. Another administrator handed me tissues. I'm sure I looked like a mess.
It was sure nice to feel like "mom" again.
No comments:
Post a Comment