One 4th of July, I tried to make a red, white and blue dessert. I remember there were strawberries, blueberries, cream and Jello involved. When made correctly the layers resembled an American Flag, each color distinct from the next. When made by me, it was mostly purple. The layers melded together. Instead of resembling an American Flag, the dessert reminded you of Barney.
Parenting is something like this. The ongoing challenge is to keep the layers from melding together; to distinguish one person from the next so that the relationship recognizes each distinct person in it.
On Monday, we will drop off my son at an airport. He will fly from there to basic training, where we will meet him for graduation in 10 weeks. Today, we are living in the waiting period, which is where the layers easily turn to purple.
Here is what I mean.
- I feel sad, but my sadness should not meld into his feelings. He feels excitement (among other feelings). My feelings are mine and not his.
- I feel apprehension. What is my son’s future? Despite Isaiah’s prophecy, swords are still lifted up. Spears were not beaten into pruning hooks. War remains a possibility. Yet my own apprehension need not be his. He needs to feel his own way through the uncertainty.
- I feel loss. He will miss many moments in the next ten weeks. Birthdays, holidays, senior prom, and his own high school graduation. And yet, my role is to support his decision that this is the right next step in his life. My own sense of loss needs to remain my own.
Feelings are such a bugger. They spill out of us and, I’m learning, feelings are created by electrical activity in our brains based not as much on reality as our own human experience. Feelings can make our relationships meld together; when anxiety is high, it is easy to forget where each of us starts and stops.
This requires letting go. I can sort through my feelings and offer to help my son sort through his, but in the end I can only let my son’s feelings be his own. I can recognize my own concerns without trying to make them his. I can love and support him by paying attention and tending to my own feelings.
I find that prayer helps. In prayer, I can commiserate with God, who reminds me that my son is his own person and I am mine. As the conversation unfolds, I hear the reminder that letting go is better than holding on. “Just remember the Barney disaster,” God won’t let me forget. “I remember.” God doesn’t mind eye rolls.
Photo by Towfiqu barbhuiya on Unsplash
Lisa Lewton 