Hero is One: Growing Up

I’m still not sure how I’m not only a grandma, but I have a one year old grand baby.  

It’s like I am in some strange time warp.  I honestly feel like I just barely gave birth to Henry myself (and to be honest, it was only 23 years ago—he works fast).

Its crazy how quickly time passes.  I remember so clearly going away for John’s 40th and having my parents help out while we were gone.  Henry had his wisdom teeth out the day before we came home.  My father called frustrated that Henry was going through something so important while I was away (I didn’t really know how hard it would be on him—I got mine out and the next day I was fine, so I assumed Henry would have the same experience—silly me).  My father told me in a rather firm voice that I should not be away during these key times in their lives.  

“Henry is sixteen.  He will be gone before you know it, Mary.  These are precious days,” he told me.

I shook my head.  I was 38 and utterly overwhelmed by mothering, measuring out my days in teaspoons of seconds, not minutes or hours.  I could not WAIT for not only Henry but all my children to grow up and leave, or at least I thought that.  But when I heard that tone of melancholy and earnestness in my father’s voice, I took note.  I remember coming home to a rather ill son and four other small children desperate for hugs and attention and love.  I don’t know if I properly greeted them or embraced them.  In my ideal mind, I did, but I’m not sure.  I hope I did.  What I remember about that day is realizing that they were all indeed growing up.  That just like me, and all my seven other siblings, they would leave their parents and go on to have their own adventures and families.  I looked at my children and said to myself, Yeah, but that’s in like twenty million years.  I’ve got them to myself until then.

But seven years later, I have two married, one a sophomore in college and only two big ones at home.  I am measuring the time I have left with the children at home in teaspoons, days, and there aren’t that many left.

I am so happy for each of them.  I could not in my wildest dreams have imagined that they would get so lucky (the oldest two) in their life partners.  

I always look at couples and think, Dang, he was lucky to get her or Shoot, she won the lottery in him.  I love my children dearly, but in both cases—Chloe and Jake—we got the best end of the deal.  I didn’t know anyone could love my children as much as I do—in fact, more.  Things are not perfect but who wants perfect?  It’s so boring and overrated.  It’s that little touch of different options and ideas that creates friction of the birth of new perspectives and ideas.  

But that’s where I am.  Watching my children taking these big steps—having babies, graduating from college, buying homes, cars, and furniture.  

And now, what am I?  What is my job?  How do you raise grown children?  

I don’t know.

Just like when they handed me a cone headed tiny little baby and said, Here he is!  Good luck! And I thought, but I don’t even know how to put on his diaper.  How do I deal with this six pounds of perfection?  Please, tell me everything.  I don’t know how, I don’t know what, I don’t know . . . How can you trust me with this?  And everyone just smiled and said, You’ll figure it out.

And we did.  Sometimes well and sometimes not so well.  But together we raised each other.  Henry and PHoebe and Celia and Piper and Finnegan—they raised some pretty ok parents.  And in return, we attempted to keep them alive, fed, and somewhat clothed. We did the best we knew how.

And that’s how I’m doing this grown children and grandma business—I’m trying the best I can.  When there is an option, I always choose love and to cheer and support and say, You’ve got this!  I believe in you.  I am here for you.  Even though, inside, I am totally confused, scared, worried and in awe of their bravery.  Being a parent of grown children—it’s the hardest, bravest thing I’ve ever done. You have to TRUST them.  Oh heavens.  God Bless us all.

And the rest? I just wing it.  Probably make a hash of it half the time, or maybe most of the time, but as I whispered to my minuscule Henry as I held him awkwardly in my arms, the first day at home alone together, “I’ve never done this before.  Be patient with me. I’ll try my best and love you with all my heart.  I hope that’s enough.”

I have prayed that every single day sense.  I hope, I pray, I plead that my best is enough.  And the rest, I hope God makes up for my failings.

I find myself telling Henry and Chloe and all my nieces and nephews entering this parenting stage, You’ve got this.  It’s crazy hard and you feel like you are failing 85% of the time and the other 15% you’re just too tired to care either way.  And that’s ok to. You’re going to do amazing despite everything.  Just getting out of bed, one of the greatest acts of courage a parent can perform, and you do that everyday.  Be gentle with yourself and your partner.  Be calm.  Love. Laugh as often as possible and forgive first and completely.  These small, nearly impossible things are the recipe for a great life.

Good luck . . . 

Here comes another generation—fresh and clean and ready to put us to shame with their brilliance, kindness, and ability to see farther, think more clearly and solve dilemmas we never dreamed of.  

Hat’s off to you!  I can’t wait to watch the magic of you unfold.  You are doing great.