I knew this day was coming, but I find myself unprepared. Intellectually, I suppose I’m surprised it hasn’t already happened, but emotionally, you may have well just sucker punched me. My child is hurt and upset and I can’t fix it.
I can’t fix it and I know exactly how he feels. I can’t fix it and I want to cry for his little ten year-old self and for my little ten year-old self because I know how he feels. I can’t fix it and it’s a terrible feeling. I know this is a normal part of growing up, a setback that his brain will probably file away and not think about for a long time, if ever again. But, what if it isn’t? What if he just got an emotional scar? What can I do?
The answer to my unfortunate question on all fronts is –NOTHING. Sure, I can counsel him through the experience and help him cope, hopefully, minimizing the impact or turning into a valuable lesson, but, I can’t DO anything.
Hello, vulnerability, we meet again. It’s never nice to see you, but I find this encounter especially unpleasant because you’ve involved my child–low blow, even for you. I think I’ve found a whole new level to this misery. It’s one thing to put yourself out there, here I am Universe, I’m open, vulnerable—let the magic/terror begin. But, to have to trust “the process” and “do the work” when it comes to my offspring—why don’t I just give him some knives to juggle? Or drop him off at the park at night alone, next to a creepy white van with no windows? I’m sure it will all work out.
My best friend had children several years before I did. I vividly remember sitting with her and her toddler one day and asking her what it was like—having a child, being a mother? I still remember what she said, “It’s like having a piece of your heart walking around on earth.” As a writer, I appreciated the mental picture she painted, but I didn’t get it. Not because I’m obtuse or lack empathy, but because there are some things that are unable to be understood without experiencing them. What does Paris smell like? How does it feel to loose someone you love? Have your heart broken? For lots of these things, you can read about it, hear about it, but to truly understand it–you kinda have to be there.
Being a parent is one of those things. You have to look into a weepy little person’s face that is soley your responsibility and looks to you for answers, comfort and emotional security and know that you have no answer and maybe you can try to provide some comfort, but other than that—you got nothin’. You are left completely exposed as a fraud because your little person thinks you have all of the solutions –but this is it, the first chink in your armor. Maybe it’s not today, but the day is fast approaching when they know—they don’t think, they KNOW, that you can’t fix everything. And, that, my friends, stinks because it means they’re growing up. And, yes, that’s not a bad thing and sort of the point of this whole parental experiment, but when it’s looking you in the face—how many bottles of wine does that wine fridge hold?
So there’s that on top of the fact that your child is hurting. Whether it’s because they didn’t get that part in the school play, got cut from the team, or some other kid—who’s parents are clearly terrible and not trying to improve themselves in any way. Not that I’m judging, because I’m off the judgement—thanks, Gabby Bernstein—progress, not perfection, don’t judge me—my child is hurting and I can’t make it stop. Because, they’re bigger now, their little minds are forming into wonderful spaces that write prose that impress you and paint pictures that look like legit art. They’re bigger and everyone says it, and it’s a stupid cliché, but little kids little problems; big kids, big problems—and let’s be honest people, clichés are clichés for a reason—they’re freaking true most of the time!
And, while this “problem” is probably not truly defined as such—no one is sick or in danger, but no matter how trivial it is, it comes with all the feels. Their feels, their tiny little onesie-wearing– because that’s always how I’ll see them—feels. I want to swaddle them and sway them and shush them, even though they are almost as tall as me. That’s the thing when you mother someone, it’s constantly changing and everything is a moving target, but at the same time, it all comes down to that baseline instinct “you are mine and I am to take care of you.”
When my first son was an infant, my uncle became gravely ill. My grandmother flew down and rushed to his bedside. I remember sitting in his hospital room with the two of them and watching her. She would wipe his brow and clean his mouth, she’d brush his hair back from his eyes. I remember sitting there and having the most profound epiphany. All of my life these two people had existed as my uncle and my grandmother, independently. In that moment I realized that I was watching a mother and her child. That she was tending to him exactly like I was tending to my infant son. He was a grown man and there was no difference. And, I got it.
This love is so enormous, so overwhelming that it sometimes feels like too much–too much responsibility, too much pressure, too much hurt. It is the ultimate experiment in vulnerability. Your whole heart is walking around out there. You have to let them be hurt and fix themselves. You have to allow them the space to figure things out on their own, when you know the right answer. Because, at the end of this journey, you have to let them go. You let them go and pray. Pray you’ve filled them with enough love, laughter, morals, goodness. Pray that the world takes it easy on them and that the big things come at them in waves and not all at once. And, pray that that fridge may never run out of wine.