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OK, sorry, you all, because this one is going to be all about the struggles of parenting teenagers who are getting dangerously close to leaving the nest, and I already know there are going to be a few different reactions to this one. Some of you are going to say, "No kids, can't relate," while others have been there, done that and are probably wondering why I am making such a big deal about something every parent eventually goes through. Then there are those of you who are right here with me, feeling this just as much, if not more, and probably trying not to think too hard about how quickly the years that once felt endless somehow disappeared. Of course, there may also be a few readers thinking, "Whatever, such is life, get over it and move on," and to you I say, thanks, super helpful.
My husband and I have two amazing boys whom we deeply love and genuinely enjoy, although I should probably clarify that we will always love them and enjoy them anytime they aren't acting like -- insert whatever expletive you'd like here -- because I am sure they have earned every possible one at some point during their teenage years. Teenagers, right? Our oldest is a senior in high school, with our other son right behind him as a junior, which means there is no pretending anymore that we have all this time before things start changing, and I am dying a little bit inside just thinking about it.
Don't get me wrong, because I have loved every year they have gotten older, and I genuinely love watching them become full-grown human beings who have their own ideas, personalities and opinions, even if they are still figuring out how to appropriately express those opinions. Then again, join the crowd, because I know plenty of 50-year-olds who are still figuring out how to appropriately express themselves, so I am certainly not going to hold that against two teenage boys.
Of course, I miss the days when I could scoop them up and hold them in my arms, when their problems were smaller and Mom could fix most things with a snack, a hug or some ridiculous distraction, but the truth is that I am loving this phase, too. I love talking to them, hearing what they think, laughing with them and getting these little glimpses of the men they are becoming, which is probably why I don't necessarily want to go backward as much as I just want time to slow down for a little while.
I think what scares me the most isn't that they're growing up, but the intense fear of what will become of them when they leave our nest and we are no longer right there to help. Will they make good decisions, find good people, be happy, recover when something goes completely sideways and remember everything we've tried to teach them over the past eighteen years? More importantly, will they remember to eat something besides Chipotle, wash their sheets occasionally and call their mother without needing money?
Then, of all things, an old sitcom made me look at this a little differently. I was watching "Up All Night" with one of my favorite actresses, Christina Applegate, and there was a scene where she was trying to teach her baby how to crawl, which suddenly made me think about my own boys and something I had never really considered before.
We didn't actually teach them how to crawl.
They figured it out because they wanted to get somewhere, and the more they wanted whatever was sitting across that room, the more determined they became to reach it. Maybe they scooted backward first, rolled around in circles, got frustrated or face-planted into the carpet, but eventually they figured out how to move themselves from where they were to where they wanted to be.
Yes, we created the safe space for them to do it, moved the things that could hurt them, encouraged them, cheered when they finally made it and picked them up when things didn't go according to plan, but ultimately they were the ones who had to figure out how to crawl.
Maybe that's what we've been doing this entire time without realizing it, because crawling became walking, walking became running, and eventually all of that became school, friendships, sports, driving, jobs, college applications and decisions about lives that are increasingly becoming their own. We have spent all these years creating the safest space we could while slowly moving farther away from the controls, even though every part of me sometimes wants to grab the controls right back.
I'm certainly not going to pretend this realization suddenly makes me okay with watching them leave, because I already know I will worry, stare at my phone waiting for the text that says they made it safely, ask too many questions and probably cry somewhere nobody can see me. I will also have to remind myself that my job was never to map out every step of their lives or make sure they never fell; my job was to give them a safe enough place to learn how to get back up and keep moving toward wherever they wanted to go.
So maybe leaving the nest isn't only about something ending, and maybe it is also evidence that something worked, because those two little boys who once struggled to make it across our living room floor eventually figured out how to crawl without us showing them every move.
Now comes the really hard part for me, because I have to trust that they can do it again.
From me to you, maybe raising our kids was never really about teaching them exactly where to go, but about giving them a safe place to start, enough confidence to figure out how to get there and enough love to always know where home is.