Vitamin Release

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.