In less than a week, I will have a high school graduate. I remember vividly bringing her home from the hospital, and experiencing that overwhelming high that only love in its most pure form can produce.
“It goes by in the blink of an eye!” they always said.
Eighteen and a half years later, as I sit here and type, I reflect on the years with joy and grief. You see, I had this story in my mind I began constructing at her birth, and because I was the author, I could control the narrative.
It went something like this…
My child would excel in school, have friends, attend church with our family every Sunday, be active in youth group, have morally upstanding friends with nice families, and get a scholarship and go to a four-year college. I mean, all of those things check the, ‘I did everything right as a parent’ box, right?
I am quite sure it surprises you that the main character deviated from the plot, and started on a journey with a story all her own.
In this story, Mom is not the author. This particular story is filled with twists and turns I had not envisioned…
I had not planned on her moving out at 17. I had not planned on a strained relationship, and a church pew without her. I expected college campus tours in the fall, and acceptance letters in the early spring. I could see that social media post of my pride and joy proudly declaring what college she would be attending in the fall with dozens of supporters cheering her on through congratulatory posts.
“Mom, I don’t want to go to college right now, and maybe not ever.”
“Mom, I’m happy on my own, and don’t think I want to move back in.”
Over the past year, my story crumbled before my eyes. The frequent reminder from well-meaning friends and acquaintances asking, “Where will she be going to college after graduation?” The empty bed, the day at church when high school seniors were recognized had a vacant spot where she should have been standing. My dreams faded before my eyes as the months passed.
In my mind, I envisioned the day I dropped her off at college would be the day that she became her own person, and started living by her own rules. Cognitively I know that our children have their own identities and begin the process of independence not long after birth; gradually milestone by milestone. My heart and mind failed to make the connection in some ways. If I’m being honest, I wanted to finish this month with a pat on the back and a sign in my yard announcing where my graduate was headed.
Nobody prepares you for the appointment where the nurse cannot detect a heartbeat, or the child with special needs. There is no way to prepare a heart for the teen who cuts or has an eating disorder. These things happen every day, and yet, we are stunned when they happen to us.
The teenage years have been one humbling experience after the next. Many tears have been shed, but through it there has been much growth, and real healing. I have learned so much about the balance of letting go while still loving and supporting.
Our story will continue to unfold, and I have come to realize that our children’s hopes and dreams may not line up with ours, and that is OK. Their journey may look different, and it needs to be celebrated and appreciated all the same. I make room for my grief, too because that is important. I also celebrate her victories and future.
I have two young children at home still, and I am thankful for the hard lessons this season of parenting has taught me as I move forward. I reframe my expectations, I get on my knees and pray, and I continue to remind myself to love them for who and where they are. Turns out, they teach us as much about life as we teach them, maybe more.
