On Unessentials and Parenting

It might be time for me to tap out.  Mainly because, well, I’m tapped out. 

“I would give up the unessential; I would give my money, I would give my life for my children; but I wouldn’t give myself.  I can’t make it more clear…”  With these words, Kate Chopin’s Edna in The Awakening articulates my approach to motherhood.  And, it is precisely this attitude a led a now ex-husband to tell my then fourth-grader that, “Your mama should’ve never had children.”  I never believed that becoming a mother meant I had to give up my interests or my brains, and the men I married seemed to feel that I should have done so.  I know women who have given up their identities and time and friends and sexuality and preferences - almost everything - in order to mother their offspring.  I have not.  I have adjusted some activities and interests over the years to accommodate children, but I have not abdicated myself in order to parent.

About eight years ago I met a man who was on the verge of getting married.  He and his wonderful wife have become good friends over the course of the years.  When I met them, my children were 4, 10, and 12.  I was home.  A lot.  I liked being home and making suppers and watching cartoons and going to the playground.  They liked going out and having a drink (or three) and hanging out until late at night.  Now, the roles are reversed.  My children have grown and theirs have been born.  They have a kindergartener, a preschooler, and an infant.  They like staying home and making suppers and watching cartoons and going to the playground.  I would like to go out and have a drink (or three) and stay up sort of late.  It is an interesting reversal.  I like them particularly because I am reminded of the happinesses of young children, but  my house has the happinesses of  [mostly] young adults and teens.

Here’s the thing:  if you did the word problem above, you have figured out that my children are 20, 18, and 12 now.  I am past the fun of picking out tonight’s healthful supper or the weekend’s playground activity.  After working all day, I don’t mind coming home, having a piece of cheese, a cracker and a grape.  All well and good, but not for a twelve year-old.  So, I am still forced to ponder “what to have for supper.”  And, the fact of the matter is: I don’t care anymore.  I have aged out of being the mom who plans supper, does laundry for everyone, or checks all your homework. 

I don’t care because I have spent nearly 21 years earning the money for, buying and making or procuring healthful dinners, packing lunches, arranging play dates, checking homework, brokering friendships, doing laundry, having meaningful conversations after school, tucking into bed, saying prayers, shuttling to soccer practice. I am inordinately happy that my youngest son (just started middle school) does not bring home weekly artwork or requests for empty milk jugs for a class project.  I’m kind of tired of being a mom for those who need such things.

I am, however, totally on board to be the mom who gives relationship advice, college major guidance, suggestions on where to find good car insurance, and acceptance to friends and lovers of all different persuasions.  I’m not happy that I have to hound middle school son to get his homework done, but I’d rather do that than be required to attend one more birthday party for Dr. Seuss at son’s elementary school. I am also totally happy to be a support to my friends with younger children.  I love them; I love their children.  And then, I can go home and my kids aren’t that young.  And I love that.  I just don’t want to be the responsible mom anymore.  Eat crackers and squeeze cheese and Gatorade for supper – I don’t want to care.  But, I still do.  It feels like a weight.

This past year on spring break, all the boys were gone.  I was alone.  I was sad for about half an hour.  And then I wrote.  I painted my bedroom.  I forgot to eat meals.  I played with the dogs.  I watched too much “Sex in the City.”  I forgot to eat again and had chocolate milk instead.  I was at home.  I was okay.  Not blissfully happy – who is?  Not depressed and lamenting the days when they were really young and really needy – was that really fun? But, I was okay.  I only had to do my laundry. 

I am totally happy with a weekend filled with books, a little yard work, and some poetry.  My twelve year-old would like to do things. Kid things.  Twelve is a hard age.  You’re a kid but you’re not.  You want to be left alone but you don’t.  Furthermore, eighteen year-olds still need to eat.  And study.  And sleep.  And eat.  And study.  And sleep.  So, I still feel the responsibility of having a house that has supper every night and pancakes on the weekends.  But, I am really not “feeling it,” as they say. 

This is not to suggest that I don’t want to do things with them.  I can get excited to go for laser tag with several middle school boys - once in a while. Middle son likes to eat out and go to movies; that’s fine.  Eldest is at college, so he’s out of the picture for most of the year.  When he comes home, he likes to eat and talk.  Okay.  I absolutely love hanging out with them, doing different things.  Just, please, dear god, do not make me decide what’s for supper or pack a lunch or do load of laundry or agree to babysit the class gerbil over the holidays.

So, the facts are:  middle son goes to college next year.  Eldest son is doing his thing.  But, youngest son and I have a solid seven more years together.  I need to find a way to spend time with my youngest that is meaningful for him (and for me.)  Perhaps we should take up a hobby together?  Karate?  Birding?  Dog training?  Painting?  But, the thing is:  he loves Dr. Who and Minecraft.  I love poetry and wine.  We will definitely need to meet in the middle. 

I am completely invested in where middle son goes to college – it’s a job requirement (I’m the college counselor at his school) and I’m his mom.  Another personal statement?  Sure.  How about a little anatomy quizzing?  Okay.   A rant about the ineffectiveness of student government?  Um, son, have you read the news this week?

I like talking to eldest son about his most recent incarnation of the college experience. If someone can come up with more ideas and not fully execute them, I would like to know who it is.  But, if you want a great sandwich a little debate on Middle Eastern politics and a really wonderful smile, may I suggest a visit to the Iowa City Which Wich?

If the dinosaurs and little green army men and Barney episodes of yesteryear weren’t really my thing, being a parent to older children is my thing.  My boys talk to me about many things, and I am not shocked or offended.  I am not a mom who is looking forward to all her children being gone, but I’m also not dreading it.  I have a lot to do, a lot that I want to do.  None of it involves growing old or being on parent boards at my kids’ colleges or planning weddings or waiting for grandchildren to materialize.

So, how does it all end?  It doesn’t.  It goes on – with different incarnations for different people.  It’s all a function of time, isn’t it?  As human beings we adjust gradually to different life circumstances.  If we don’t we will be miserable and lonely no matter what stage our children are in. Still, I’m tapping out of the young-parent stage and moving quite happily into the more-of-my-children-are-adults-than-not stage.  I really don’t care what anyone eats for supper, and everyone can do his own laundry.  I’m going to read and have a glass of wine.  Then, we can see about some laser tag and a movie.