My teens
wake up unpredictably.
Although we’re
still quarantined, school has not been cancelled, so I knock on their doors around
9:00 each day, rousing them for a short huddle and a prayer to get things going.
Today Jared,
usually slow to slither from beneath the covers in his dark cave, is stands in
his doorway wrapped in his comforter when I walk back from Summer’s room. His
presence and his height both surprise me. It’s like finding a Masai warrior in
place of a puppy. I yelp, which probably makes his day, and head upstairs. I
still can’t believe he’s eighteen.
Summer, fourteen,
arrives at the table first, a habit that still feels surreal. For the past two
years she’s stumbled to breakfast scowling and last, but today she pays me the
supreme compliment timeliness and her beautiful smile. I don’t speak to
her, though. It’s best not to push my luck.
Sixteen-year
old Ethan, silent as usual, shuffles up next. His morning squint narrows as he
lowers his forehead to rest on his folded arms. He will remain like this for
the duration of our gathering, his wiry hair the closest thing to eye contact I’ll
receive unless I confront him. I purse my lips. Today, like most days, it’s not
worth it.
Meanwhile, Jared
has mysteriously appeared on the living room floor, spread-eagled, facedown. He
asks into the carpet if he can stay there while we talk.
“No way,” I respond.
“Come on.”
He obeys at
once, silently folding himself onto the nearest bench as I begin.
“Today,” I announce,
“we have chores.”
After a few
light groans, their eyes start to glaze. I describe the rest of our day while
they sleep sitting up. I open my Bible to read a few reverent words. I hope
that they’re listening as I conclude with a prayer.
“All right,
you can go,” I announce at last. Slowly, resume basic life functions. Summer
pats my hand before leaving, and my throat feels a familiar tightness. It’s happened
more often lately, this feeling. I’m undergoing long-duration, low-voltage
shock as these children mature. Summer has transformed from a scattered littler
girl to a savvy teen overnight, keeping detailed to-do lists and caring for her
cat without my nagging. Ethan completed an AP science test at home yesterday,
needing no input from me to succeed.
And Jared: Jared
graduates in several weeks. He’s winding down multiple classes in four different
venues, and spending endless hours creating a video for a scholarship
competition.
Here, my
heart clenches as well as my throat; and I feel it. I’m worried. The
competition is international, drawing who-knows-how-many entries. There’s no
second prize, only one full-ride scholarship. What if other students have
hidden advantages? What if he doesn’t win? Should I encourage him? Warn him? Step
in?
And most of all, what happened to that skinny boy of twelve who struggled to
take even small risks?
I sigh.
Sometimes, parenting feels my first catch-and-release fish: All giddy excitement until the trout hit the shore, and
then BAM! Sun glinted off that wild, flipping tail. Fish scales flew. And
somewhere, a hook lurked that could injure us both.
I want to
help! I remember
thinking as I executed another fruitless dive for fish. If only you’d just
show me how.
But we spoke
different languages, that fish and me. And that’s the difficulty with teens. Like
the fish, they know: Time to go. I can see it in the wild thrashing that
began, for each of them, around age 13. They belong in the broad lake of
adulthood. They gasp and resist and strive madly, certain their goal can be
reached.
They forget
that we’re still attached, that I’ve got to execute the final release. I try to
communicate, but they’re too focused on the lake to understand. And so, amid
great struggle, I reach in.
I edge closer
… sidle up when their eyes settle closed … move with quick, saving speed … and …
release.
I feel it
happening today.
“I stayed up
too late last night,” Jared says after our huddle. He rubs at his dry-looking
eyes. “One-thirty, at least.”
I remember
those eyes from his childhood – blue, green, and deep enough to make you want
to sit down and cry.
“What’s up
with that?” My Mom-voice demands. “Dad told you to go to bed soon! I heard!”
Jared smiles
at me gently, the smile of an equal, a friend. “He didn’t tell me, Mom.
He suggested.”
I inhale.
This is
it.
I can feel
myself leaning in.
“You know what?
You’re right!” I force my voice to sound bright. “You’re eighteen. You decide.”
Just like
that, it’s complete. I’ve darted in – grabbed the hook – pulled it out. He is
free.
I stand up, collect
my Bible and planner, turn away.
I’m not sad.
I’m not even surprised. We’ve had exchanges like these for months, after all. This
just happens to be the exchange. The one that severs the last tie.
In a flash I
see college, marriage, travel, adventure … and competing for this coveted
prize? Who knows? It doesn’t matter in the long run. He’s adult. He is free. He’ll
decide.
“I should
set up a bedtime for myself,” Jared muses as he commences his new life, as I commence
mine. “Maybe eleven or twelve.”
I smile and
head towards the stairs.
Welcome to
the lake, strong, brave fish. You’ll be fine.
