Go. Do. Be.

I became a mother very young. Too young. Despite that, or maybe because of that, I wanted to be a certain kind of mother. One who raises her son to become an independent man and not a grown child who exists to fill holes in her own life. In all my immaturity, I feel like I had a decent handle on that, if nothing else. And that’s pretty good, considering it was well before Teen Mom Tragedy TV was here, which would have been a great source for What Not To Do.

three

By independent “man” I don’t mean the alpha lumberjack football coach type. Jesus, I was afraid to even let him play with toys I didn’t feel were gender-neutral enough (whatever that means). I just mean that I wanted him to be happy and emotionally self-reliant. I didn’t want to raise a mama’s boy. I figured I owed him that, at least, since he didn’t have a choice in being born to a broke teenager. If nothing else, I could help make sure he’d be a competent adult someday.

seven

I tried not to smother or hover (sometimes I failed). I tried not to make him feel responsible for my feelings or to monopolize his time, especially during his tween and teen years. I wanted him to go do stuff and learn lessons the hard way and figure out what kind of person he wants to be in his real life outside his role as my first-born.

And as it happens, he’s all the things I hoped he’d “at least” be and so much more. He’s also smart and dashing and has a big heart and incredible humility and work ethic. And a whole bunch of other things I feel lucky to have in a child, but don’t feel at all responsible for. Genuinely, I don’t. He is who he decided to be.

eighteen

Except here’s the thing. All those feelings about maintaining  a healthy respect for his personhood and yada-yada-yada  have evaporated in the last day or two and I’m kind of scared of myself. I’m losing it a little. I’ll get it back, I know that. But I feel blindsided, which is weird because I’ve very actively prepared for this.

I never pretended this wasn’t coming or that it would be easy. I practiced a lot of positive self-talk. Like, “It’s going to be really hard because you’ve never been without him in your entire adult life. It’s not about you, though, so whatever you do, just keep your shit together.”

I was ready. He’s moving to the mainland and going to college, then if all goes well, he’ll  find work that means something to him and a family of his own that means everything to him. It’s good. It’s great. He’s going to be fine. I’m going to be fine. We’re all going to be fine. Nobody panic. Everybody breathe, mostly me. Because my kid? He’s breathing fine. He’s the calm, self-assured guy I hoped he’d be.

And just think, I only have to do this two more times, with my only daughter and my last baby.

I’m so not going to make it.

Yes I am.

For sure.

Probably.

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