Yet here I am, melancholic, drowning in sad thoughts. I want this day to be happy. I really do. I want to see sunshine and I want to shed the tinge of sadness that somehow assigned itself to this momentous occasion. I take the first step to shedding away my anguish - a shower - hoping that the downpour of steamy hot water would somehow wash away my sorrow.
You see today I am officially deemed inept, useless! Today my son turns 18, which has left me in a daze all week wondering, where did the time go?! And what do I do with the rest of my life?
For the better part of those 18 years, my days revolved around feedings and bath time, my nights half-asleep on a rocking chair next to his crib in a semi-reclining position, willing to jump up and attend to the slightest of whimpers. Over the years I nursed countless rashes, insect bites, ear infections, teething pains, and play ground injuries. For many years I monitored his weight, height and bowel movements. My life revolved around doctor's visits and play dates and constantly pursuing the latest tools and toys that would enhance his development and allow us to spend quality time together. I installed a basket ball hoop in my driveway and learned how to dribble and slam dunk, because he showed interest in basket ball. I attended countless school plays, recitals, open houses, parent-teacher 'meet & greet.' I embraced homework and school projects, charts and dioramas, convincing myself that I'd be filling some gaps of those days where I decided doodling and daydreaming were more important than what my teachers had to offer. I even secretly visited Uban Dictionary to look up words like booyah and diggity, so that I can always be the cool, hip mom! I enthused about the latest addition to his ever-growing Pokémon card collection. Hell, I embraced Pikachu as if he were my own!
I instilled many traditions that were our own, like taking walks to the lake to feed the ducks whenever we have amassed enough stale bread at our house to feed those suckers. There were other fun traditions like breakfast in bed on birthdays, Easter treasure hunts and board games on Friday afternoons to usher in the weekend where I happily indulged in games like Operation and Snakes and Ladders and Monopoly and chess as he got older. I tried to enter his world by learning the lyrics to Blue while I introduced him to the music of Genesis, Joe Cocker, Depeche Mode and the BeeGees (SHUT UP!) as he got older.
Like most mothers, I wore many hats. I bounced back and forth between the roles of the affectionate mother, the protective adult, the stern disciplinarian, the budding psychologist, the private tutor, the disgruntled chauffeur, the amateur coach, the discriminating cook, all while educating him on random subjects like museums and Zionism, all while promoting physical activity and healthy eating habits, all while protecting and praying for my child's safety.
Cultivating my children's interest, potential, or whatever gave pleasure to their senses was always the chief business of my my life. And as you are sitting, waiting, pleading for their growth, you eventually begin to forget what you are waiting for.. you are set on a course, until suddenly, you look, and .. BOOM!
I shake my head, in an effort to shake off the ill-feeling and I put on a courageous face in order to' face' my child. I find him and say, "Happy Birthday! Eighteen, huh? I am officially useless!" (yeah, brilliant, I know!) to which my independently-minded child responds with, "No way mom! Your sense of humor is still appreciated."
Huh?! My Sense of humor? MY SENSE OF HUMOR?!! HUH?! Is he serious, or is he testing my afore-mentioned sense of humor? I study his well-defined jaw trying to pick on any indication that my son is/was joking. Is indeed putting my humor to the test. But No.
I wanted to say something, but unfortunately (or fortunately) I didn't. I couldn't. All I could do at that moment was muster a hint of a smile, (I think!) I turn back to my room with my limp and defeated tail between my legs. Yeah, my tail didn't get the joke either!
The utter and immense horror! This is what I've been reduced to, and this is precisely the reason for my anguish on this day. Suddenly I began to understand why I held my other son back from going to preschool and kindergarten till the ripe age of 6, rather than the customary age of 3 or 4. In my mind, I was trying to delay his transition into adulthood.
Frustrated, I wanted to tell my son to reconsider, to not rush adulthood. It's overrated anyway.. Adults can't go trick-or-treating. Adults have to shave, everyday. Adults have to make money. Adults have to pay taxes. Adults have to vote. Adults are held accountable for their mistakes. They have to show up for bail hearings. Adults dream of being kids again and spending their day at the park collecting ladybugs and flying mechanical airplanes. Really!
As I am consigned to a far shelf in the history section, I felt a rush of nostalgia for the smell of baby powder of his youth and so, I reach for baby albums. As I leaf through a series of pictures depicting first bath, first tooth, first step, and first birthday, I give considerable thought to the irony of spending a lifetime raising, nurturing, working for things, only to end up giving them up.. We aren't properly conditioned for it!
As I gaze at his toothless grin, mourning those golden times, I remember clearly what my hopes and aspirations for him were at the time. How I wanted him to grow, and the person I'd hoped he would become. The birthday that seemed impossibly distant back then, is here now!
Photos have the ability to define our perception in a way that few other things can! Suddenly, I was able to see a more complete story. A sigh of relief escapes involuntarily as I begin to realize that I have done everything I could to make sure he'd gotten everything he was meant to from life, that he indeed grew to be the person I hoped he would be! In the end, that's all any of us can do for our kids.
Unexpectedly, I feel liberated, even heroic. Like standing on top of the Great Wall of China. There is something heroic about standing on the Great wall of China or climbing to the top of the Egyptian Pyramids of Giza, just like there is something heroic about having been able to deliver to your child your core values, morals, tradition, whatever mark you were going to leave on him, your essence, and everything he would need to know about life to transition into a stable, productive adult. It feels heroic to shed the burden of being the disciplinarian and guidance counselor.
In that way that only a mother can know, I knew that it's time for my transformation. Being a mother was at the core of my self-identity, but I knew that it is time to usher in a new relationship with my son, one of an equal. Time to set the foundation for our relationship as adults. Time to plead for my transition into adulthood and to plead for my growth. To learn to practice restraint whenever I am tempted to offer an opinion or my endless stream of unsolicited advice. Time to trust in my child's ability to navigate through life, and trust that I have done all I could to provide him with the proper tools. And to trust that his turn into adulthood isn't an end, but a new beginning for me to discover who I am, as he discovers who he is and who he will evolve into. I knew that it was time to exhale!
It doesn't mean that my role as a mother ends here and now. My emotional compass will always be aligned to his. I just have to trust that I've handed out enough hugs and butterfly kisses to keep him coming back whenever he needs the comfort that only a mother can give.
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My son Omar and I, shortly before he turned legal. |
