Jonathan Turns 18

I was never a fan of children in my early and mid-twenties.  When people would ask me if I wanted to hold their baby, I would always say ‘no’ as politely as possible, but it was if they never heard me because they inevitably put their baby in my arms.  The baby, much more in tune with energy, would immediately start crying because it knew my arms weren’t a safe place.  And thus, I deemed that I wasn’t fit for motherhood.

However, my biological clock told me it didn’t matter if I didn’t want children.  I needed children.  My body needed to carry a baby.  And so, at 28, I planned to get pregnant.  I was good at planning.  I figured I’d plan to have a child in my life.  I would have a boy.  Planning life was perfection. 

Ah…the innocence of my youth is sweet.  

41 weeks and 34 hours of back labor later, a slippery, goopy, little baby boy was placed on my sweat soaked chest and all I could think was “please, someone, catch him when he slides off of me”.  I couldn’t even say it out loud.  My words were gone.  I felt raw and vulnerable and overwhelmed and oddly alone in a room full of people.  The baby I had bonded with over 41 weeks of pregnancy, the little boy I had planned and ultimately wanted so very much, was finally in my arms and no angels sang, there were no rainbows and unicorns.  There was blood and sweat and tears and stitches.  And it was loud and bright and overstimulating.  I wanted to be alone with my son, but I could barely hold him. 

That was his entrance into the world.

Within hours, we started getting to know each other.  What neither of us knew was he was born to a mother with anxiety.  I didn’t understand it because it was all I knew.  He didn’t understand it, but it was scary to him.  He didn’t sleep.  He nursed constantly.  He cried a lot. And I never put him down.  Ever.  I wouldn’t let anyone hold him because I was 100% responsible for this baby and if someone else held him and something happened to him, that was my fault. 

I never left him for two full years.  Ever.

We were incredibly attached to one another.  When I did begin to leave him he would throw himself on the floor and cling to my leg and cry and cry.  And then I would cry the entire car ride to wherever I was going. 

I had no idea he would teach me more than I could possibly ever imagine teaching him.  Because of him, I found myself so I could be better for him.  Although I birthed him into the world, he gave me life.

And now, I want to throw myself on the floor and wrap my arms around his leg and cry and cry as he prepares to fly.

That baby boy was placed on my chest almost exactly 18 years ago.  Where in the world has 18 years gone?  Wasn’t I just 18 myself?  How did I blink my eyes and he turn into this 6’2” tall man with a deep voice and a hairy face?

And it occurs to me that I am grieving.  This has been an incredible year of grief for me.  My dad died almost 11 months ago.  The anniversary of his death is approaching and I feel it coming.  I thought that’s why I’ve been sick.  I thought that’s why I have been crying every day.  I thought that’s why my lungs feel so heavy.  And then I was standing in the shower one morning and it was as though the universe smacked me on the head and said, “Hey…your baby is turning 18.” 

My baby is turning 18.

He’ll officially be an adult.  We came home from Victoria to find his Selective Service registration in the mail.  Happy Birthday kid.  :o  He will vote in his first Presidential Election (quite a first journey into politics this year).  He can get his own credit.  He can book his own hotel room.  He can buy a lottery ticket.  He can serve on a jury.  He can buy cigarettes (please don’t smoke, my son).  He can purchase porn (please don’t think that’s what sex is all about).  Effectively, he can do whatever he wants.  And my job now is to completely let him go.

Surrender.

There it is again.  That damn word that repeats over and over and over in my life.

I need to surrender to the grief that washes over me as I try to come to terms with being no one’s daughter anymore.  I need to surrender to the grief of soon being the mother to all adults.  This is journey number one into that foray.  Will it be any easier in three years when the last baby I bore turns 18?

What does it mean to be the mother of adults?

I don’t know.  I only know that he will teach me.

As I sit here sobbing at my keyboard, feeling the combined grief and pride, 18 years in the making, wash over me, I find this quote from a book called “The Secret Love of Sons: How We Men Feel About Our Mothers and Why We Never Tell”:

“The relationship is a double-crossover, combining all the closeness and distance between men and women  with all the links and gaps between parents and children. On the one hand, our mothers are our most irrelevant onlookers, since no matter what crooked and climbing paths we take in life, we will never be moms. On the other hand, mothers are our first and oldest friends, the coholders of an intimacy that will not be equaled for the rest of our lives. Being a son involves a deft sleight of hand, as he must swallow his deep attachment to his mother in order to fend for himself and thus please her. The mother of a son has job that's even more challenging: to prepare and rehearse her child for manhood, the . . .  crowded party to which she is never invited. Given the unique push and pull between sons and mothers, it's no wonder that our treatment of mothers is extreme. The most soft-spoken homebody will lash out ferociously against his mom; the very toughest guys among us turn to mush in her presence. . . . Men treat their mothers more callously and more tenderly than anyone else they know. . . . We want them off our backs and let them under our skins, but we very rarely tell them what's on our minds--even, and especially, when our thoughts dwell on our mothers themselves.”

Yes.  That feels about right. 

Nothing is changing here.  Tomorrow at 18y1d, it will look the same as today, but my role feels as though it has changed immensely.  It’s hands-off from here on out.  I’ve been working on that for years, but now it’s all in.  I’ll always be here if he needs me (and he still does…you know for things like food and housing and to pay for random stuff ;) ), but I have to back off and let him find his way, which means watching him fall, over and over.  Just like I did when he was learning to walk. 

It is, and has always been, about surrender.  About 17 ½ years ago, I found myself walking the halls in the middle of the night with a screaming baby.  I was 6 months into motherhood and I was confused and exhausted and on this night in particular, quite angry.  And then, I had an epiphany, from whomever or whatever it is you may believe in.  It told me, “Kelli, one day 16/17/18 years from now, you’re going to still be up in the middle of the night.  You’re going to be waiting for this baby to come home.  Hold him now.” And I sat down in a chair and cried and held and rocked that baby tight in my arms.  I knew that message was right.  And it is what got me through many long nights after that one.  I can’t hold him in my arms anymore and rock away his tears and his struggles.  I can’t protect him from all that life is going to throw at him.  I can only believe I’ve given him some of the tools he needs to survive.  I didn’t have half the tools he has and I’ve made it this far. Although I’d love for him to struggle less than I have.

But, I surrender to what is and what will be.  Because that’s all there is to do now.

I don’t have to like it.  And I’m going to cry a lot today (not in front of him).  And I’m not going to do it perfectly.  But I am going to surrender. 

I never knew what love was until he was given to me.  And now to love him the best, I must let him go.