Sweet

 

January 31, 2022

 

Greetings from the edge of the water,

 A few weeks ago, I heard a song that reminded me of another time, back when our children were so small and helpless that there was not other choice but to protect them.  When the instinct to keep them safe was never more than a breath away, so close to the surface it ruled every moment.

 I remembered taking them to the pool so they could take swimming lessons, because they had to learn to swim to be safe.  I watched them, with little to offer, except this urge to keep them from drowning.  If I could do nothing else, then I wanted to be the buoyancy that would make that possible.  I would be close enough to grab their hand.

 I’ve seen my kids get hurt, sometimes seriously, and it’s probably the same heart wrenching pain all parents go through.  When they were broken, an arm, or their heart, when they were lost, when they were afraid.  Without anyone ever teaching this connection to me, it is there, a principal part of my essence, placed there when I was created, I think.

 I will confess I was not the parent I would wish for my children, but thankfully my influence was softened by my wife’s.  No one comes to the job completely prepared, and that was never more obvious than my experience. 

 When my daughter was an infant, I trimmed her nails for the first time.  I accidentally snipped a bit of her finger, and tiny bead of blood appeared.  She looked at me, right into me, and for an eternity before her first cry, she waited to see if I could explain this pain.  Just now, over three decades later, I feel the question, and the soul piercing ache it left in me.

 Our children had the same bruises and setbacks that most kids do.  But I knew then that these things would pass, and that they would add up to be experiences that would protect them in their future.  When they were independent, strong enough and smart enough to have a life of their own choices.

 I’m a terrible swimmer.  I have no example to give, no technique to teach.  All I can offer is this passion that says “I will lift you up.  I will make it possible for you to swim.  If you need my hand, grab hold and I’ll do anything I can to keep you safe.  But paddle, dammit.”

Ann Lamott said: “We can't arrange peace or lasting improvement for those we love most in the world. They have to find their own way, their own answers. You can't run alongside your grown children with sun screen and chap stick on their hero's journey. You have to release them. It's disrespectful not to.”

And so, we release them.  They move into their own lives, making bigger and bigger steps completely independent of parental direction, until one day they are capable and smart and resourceful and self sufficient.  They are shaping their own days.  It’s then that parents are asked to do the hardest thing; nothing.

 Even then I watched and tried not to worry, tried to give their life over to them.  They check in with little things, and fewer of those, until they are clearly on their own.  Years go by and it simply becomes the norm that they are independent of you.  You see them like a friend, perhaps. They are like any other adult you meet in the world. 

 No, not really.  Not ever. 

 We do all there is to do, to teach them, to share the lessons that seem to apply, to give them the example that you hope will matter.  And it works, mostly, and they are ready for the world.  Except they go to war.  They get on planes.  They go for a run on a lonely road.  Or something else.  Or something else that wasn’t even on the list of things we worried about.

 Last week we saw a family we know come crashing into that reality.  When the random chaos of the universe intersected with a well-ordered plan.  A son’s routine eye exam led to terrifying news, and then brain surgery, and the agony of waiting.  And then the scrim was torn away, that gauzy pretend barrier between the parent and the child, where they are all grown up and we are content with their independence. And we all felt it, not just because Jackson is my sons’ friend, but because we all share the terrible, wonderful burden and privilege of being someone’s parent.

 My children know how to swim, some better than others, but they are all capable, and not afraid of the water.  I am proud of them, each for their own lives, and I can see they are strong and self-reliant.  But I know, and maybe they do, that for as long as I am alive, I am never going to be too far to reach out and grab their hand.

 

Hope this finds you watching,

 

David

 

 

 

 

 

Copyright © 2021 David Smith