growing up

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My kids call it the spider tree. It’s the Aspen at the back of our yard, forced into the corner where two sides of tall planks of fencing meet and shield our neighbors from unsightly behaviors like headstands gone awry and thirds of s’mores. Only a bush when we signed closing papers, it has grown with the years we’ve made this space ours. A ball stop for my husband as he pitches to our son, the starting point for Easter relay races, the shade needed for family photos. And this time, the backdrop for a showcase of Harry Potter characters.

Someday they’ll tell us in drawn out, annoyed voice inflections about how “we always had to take pictures outside.” I will care not. Because in ten years when one of them is balancing 12 credit hours, another is explaining scientific theorem of tornadoes using words too large for my comprehension, and the youngest is a pock-marked hot mess of hormones, I will be thankful for these snapshots that captured time. I will remember how they couldn’t quite fill the Gryffindor robes. How my son’s glasses were the most authentic addition to the costume. How black and orange tights bunched just behind the sweet bows of little shoes. The kind with a strap over the top of her foot and a rounded toe. The kind she won’t want to wear in middle school.

When I look back on this day I will not remember bad attitudes or impatience over darkness taking a millennia to arrive. I won’t remember their eye-rolling about arms so nearly touching each other’s they could gag, or the restlessness in all of us while Dad figure’s out camera settings.
I’ll see how their smiles were a clue to their budding personalities: her crinkled nose often accompanied with that signature, infectious giggle; his relaxed, obligatory grin; her lack of lips as she pulls them tight so her cheeks bulge sweetly.

Some leaves are starting to brown around the outer margins, like ready pie crust. Some are just peaking in yellowed brilliance. But most have dropped from every cool breeze that brings with it a promise, it won’t be long now. The earth groans for winter’s rest. The way I’ll groan for them to be young again.

“You are but a vapor that appears for a little while and then vanishes away.”  -James 4:14

Just like that, the limbs will be bare.
Just like that, snow and ice will have their way.
Just like that, my daughter will have her own babies. My son will stand tall and strong in tears and a tux as he watches his bride walk down the aisle. My youngest will have taken more risks than I could have ever dared.

Just like that, they will be gone. And I will miss all this.

Parenting Grown-Ups

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Arms folded tight across my chest, my jaw jutted out (Chase does a great impression of this) I was thinking, “I’ve got him. I’m beyond right, I’m brilliant.”

Often, I was. But is that the point?

I grew up an only child, caught in the crosshairs of a civil divorce. What they say is true, a great divorce is still a divorce. Luckily, I’m close to all my parents. But one of the aftereffects of this was my uncanny ability to relate to people older than me. Add to this the fact my mom worked at a college campus where I spent many of my post-school hours and summer days. I was surrounded by them: grown-ups.

After kindergarten I’d go straight to the president’s office (the father of my mom’s best friend) and schmooze him with my charm. He’d give me snacks. I returned daily.

I hung out with 20-something’s on a regular basis, was really good at P-I-G because I had a basketball rim at my constant disposal, and knew all the professors on a first-name basis, though I still said Mr. Then I’d go home to my mom, another grown-up.

It was a couple years into marriage that I realized my husband didn’t have the same appreciation for these stellar relational skills. In fact, he thought they were downright annoying. Recently I’ve also learned that I tend to communicate aggressively when things don’t go my way. Said husband would also say this is not a becoming quality of mine.

But so became our toxic dance.

“You come home and just check out.”

“Nothing’s ever good enough for you.”

Round and bitterly around we went for a long time. I was the parent who was always picking up the slack. He was never reaching the bar.

We both wanted to be seen. I wanted him to know that when he was in the room, I still felt alone. He wanted me know that all his hard work all day long was for us. I wanted him to know that connecting was important to me. He wanted me to know that he was doing that the best he knew how.

“He’ll always fail you, you know. He can’t really fill you. No human can,” said an oh-so-wise woman to me once. 

Huh. Are you sure? Because I’m pretty certain if he acted exactly like Westley in The Princess Bride everything would be fine.

Of course she was right. People let me down, all the time. They’re people, I’m people and that equals mess. I haven’t mastered this perfect balance of give and take, love and let live. It turns out, grown-ups can think for themselves. It turns out, so can I. And when I do, I have a lot more to actually offer.