first published April, 2015
A child’s eighteenth birthday: the mythical, most-talked-about parental milestone of all. How often is that age invoked, from the moment of conception, almost as an incantation?
“You’re committed for the next 18 years . . .”
“. . . what it costs to raise a kid to age 18 . . .”
“. . . until that kid turns 18 and can make her own decisions . . .”
“. . . when she’s finally 18 and out of the house.”
It feels impossible, as unattainable as reaching the end of infinity. How can I begin to imagine this child, grown? But it’s here. She is 18 today. It’s done. I did it. Victory is mine.
So why can I not stop crying?
This journey has been successful but it has not been easy—not for me. It has been rich and wondrous and indescribably rewarding, but not every day. Some days have been awful, flooded with doubt and despair, fear and fatigue, tantrums and tears (and I am referring to my own). There have been moments when the entirety of my resources has proven wholly inadequate, when I have had to redefine my idea of motherhood, and to rediscover who I am, relative to her. This has been deep-water adventure.
Countless times I have despaired of ever doing right by her. Who decided that I was equipped to be her mother? Why, of all the souls in the universe, had she chosen me?
It’s not been an easy journey for her, either. She was not unhappy, but often discontented, even in the beginning. It seemed to me she was pissed as hell to be a baby again. “This stupid body,” she seemed to be thinking, “it doesn’t do anything I want it to.” She was so frustrated, not at all satisfied to lay around and wait. Every time she mastered a skill I felt her tension ratchet down a notch. That pattern held true for many years; it took a long time for her to love her skin.
And now there she is, completely at home inside herself: body and soul have grown into her brain; she is one.
These 18 years are flashing before my eyes, moment by moment by moment.
Holding her for the first time thinking, “What just happened?” Terrified to leave the hospital, waiting for the car, quietly sobbing. “How can I do this?”
Home from the hospital, asleep in her carrier set gingerly on the sofa. Sitting there, silent and stunned, working to dismiss the creeping panic: what will we do when this baby wakes up?
Adults meeting her for the first time, inevitably trying to elicit a delighted baby giggle, her staring back placidly. “So serious,” they remark, as if her refusal to laugh were a flaw in her character.
5, 6, 7 months old, screaming in protest as Frank greets her upon his return from work, his crushing hurt as he hands her, inconsolable, right back to me. Her punishment for his having been gone all day.
Playgroup, 8 months old, Daniel sitting contentedly with his toys for hours while you crawl endless circles around him.
A year old, the two of us sitting on the bottom step with our good friend Moo, Baa, La La La. A cow says—“MOO!” The flash of recognition. Yes, that’s right! A cow says . . . “MOO!” Her dancing feet. No parlor trick, but a purposeful, intentional response. Eureka! She actually speaks, and her whole body celebrates.
18 months old, settling in for a round of book-reading. Her pointing out and naming letters: J! R! B! D! Recognizing each of those 26 letters. “Well that’s interesting. I wonder what I should do now.”
Teletubbies.
Four years old, refusing even to look at the dentist, much less open her mouth. “I’m going to come back when I’m 5,” she told me as we drove away. “No,” I replied, “you’re going to come back in 6 months.”
That same year the pediatrician remarking, “She’s a lot more stubborn than I would expect at this age.” So it’s not just me?
Four-and-a-half, the pre-schoolers’ Art Start class. All the kids dancing and frolicking while the music plays, quickly partnering up when the music suddenly stops. Each time the music quits, there she is, standing alone.
Kindergarten, sitting at the kitchen table with her homework: one photocopied sheet on which to practice copying the letter “I.” The wailing. The torment. Encouraging, urging, cajoling her—come on, it’s not a big deal. Her hating this task with the fullness of her soul. 15, 20 minutes of agony and then leaving the room like a bullet. Half an hour later, her emerging from the basement with a freshly-written one-page story–perfect spelling, immaculate penmanship.
First grade, guitar class, the tiny chair. Turning her head for my acknowledgement after “graduating” a new song. Auditioning for the school talent show with an original poem.
Second grade, melting down over learning a new guitar piece: things come easily to her; when they don’t, she rails.
Fourth grade, gymnastics, her heart quietly breaking as we explain how we can’t afford the team fees and the People to People trip to D.C. Her joyless workouts listening to her teammates recount the glories of the last meet. Watching guiltily as her love for the gym withers and dies.
5th grade, tentatively preparing an audition for the role of Second Merchant in her class production of A Christmas Carol. Her cool but confident performance as Lord Capulet later that year.
7th grade, on her bedroom floor, weeping over a horrific friend break-up.
9th grade, her bottomless disappointment in the diving team experience.
Her radiance performing with Age of Guinevere in New York her Junior year.
Her calm throughout the college application process, and the one bad afternoon imploding under her covers.
Prom dress shopping.
The relativity of parenting time is incomprehensible: the days feel interminable but the years race by, and we are left with just a series of moments. I’ve been afraid to miss it. For better or worse, I believe I have not missed much. Change that: it has all been for the better.
We did it. She seems happy. Unlike that small person new to the world, she is content.
I have always known that she doesn’t belong to me. I am her custodian, her guide; she is on loan to me from the universe. The contract is not up, but the terms are shifting. She is ready, and I’m getting ready, too. Sometimes I’m even looking forward to her leaving, though we really just got to the good part. This parenting job is badly designed.
Soon she’ll be gone and I will have far fewer moments. And that is why, as hard and painful and astounding as it has been—that is why I can’t stop crying.
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