Because I said so...that really is the reason.

Because I said so

March 17, 2008

J.Daymon Cole~For my children

 

I am your parent…because I said so

 

I said yes to that responsibility, that joy

I said yes, I do want that girl
And that boy

And so now here you are

So full of light
And I’m here to guide you, and that is my right
Because I said so.

Because I said so

Yes~those words sometimes chafe

But without them, how could I keep you safe?
I know that to you, those words aren’t kind
They seem to do nothing for you, only bind
And I know that right now, you don’t understand
And you feel like I’m always there, holding your hand

And in a way, I am

Because I said so

"Because I said so,"

It turns out, means much more
Than restricting your life or assigning some chore
Because I said so..it’s my job, can’t you see?
It’s the thing that God gave, when he gave you to me

 

Because I said so,

I have watched as you grow
And with every moment, I have had to let go

Because I said so,

I watch as you choose
I must cheer as you win
Console when you lose
I must help you to see that there’s value in both
That both will contribute so much to your growth

Because I said so,

I must hold on, it’s true
But you never notice, when I let go of you
You probably don’t see how it tears at my heart
When I let you go somewhere without me, apart
You probably don’t know, I worry each minute
I can’t wait until I check your bed, and you’re in it!

Because I said so,

I say “No, not today.”
But I also must watch you, as you grow away
I must give you freedoms, before I am ready
I must give you bounds, and that makes my heart heavy
I must know the difference, because you don’t, yet
I must hold firm, I cannot relent

Because I said so,

I must listen to you
I must ask the right questions, I must see them through
I must require accountability,
But acknowledge you’re a child
How best do I teach you...I have such a short while!

All that I want for you is the best

The safest, the utmost, the pinnacle, the crest!
I must remain steady, yet I have to bend
I must be here for you, and I am~without end
Because I said so

Because I said so,

I am grateful for you
For the things that you’ve taught me
The stuff we’ve been through
And the stuff we’ll still go through,
And yes, we’ll survive!
(My parents had ME, and they’re still alive!)

Because I said so,

I will tell you “I love you”
In front of your friends, I will kiss and will hug you
I will fuss and I’ll tease
I’ll correct and appease
And one day, in a mirror, I promise,
You’ll see

Because I said so, that

"Because I said so,"

Is giving, and taking
It’s holding, releasing, healing and breaking
It’s yes, and it’s maybe, and “definitely no!”
Sometimes it’s saying “I tried to tell you so.”
It’s love, understanding, a laugh and a smile
It’s letting you know
You’re worth that extra mile

Because I said so,

It’s my privilege, my assignment
It came to me wrapped up in you:
My consignment.

Because I said so,

You will always be
My treasure, my precious
My child…you see?

Because I said so,

I will watch you with pride
I’ll delight in your changes
I will be by your side
I’ll encourage, I’ll discipline,
I’ll delight as you grow

I will do all of this

But I’ll never let go.

Because I said so.

Sometimes I think that I'm trying "work some magic" with a duct-taped wand...

So Sam and I had to go pick Elijah up from work, and at the top of the 68th Street exit there was a guy with a "Homeless and Hungry" sign. Sam noticed and had a dollar which he wanted to give to the man. I explained that it's better to give food than money, etc, etc, etc... So we decided that after picking Elijah up, we would get the man something and Sam could give him some food. All went according to plan...oh, except for~the guy was GONE. That's when we decided, at 8:30 tonight, to go hunting for a homeless person, armed with good intent, 2 BK Broilers, French fries, a milk, a water, and a banana. We drove in the growing darkness, looking for someone to whom we could give dinner. Did I mention, I have night blindness and wasn't wearing my contacts, and Elijah isn't insured to drive the Vue? Because of my vision, and MDOT, we ended up in the left turn lane at 28th Street and South Division, with nary a homeless person spotted. Our plan had been to look on Division, but we settled on 28th Street and the boys kept looking. NADA. So I thought that maybe if we drove behind Roger's Plaza, we might find someone. Sam's advice when he saw that stretch of pavement? "Don't roll down the windows. I'm serious." And Elijah suggested that we watch for people at bus stops who might appear needy. Sam also felt that anyone walking down the street and carrying a bag would be a likely candidate, but that anyone with a woman would obviously NOT be in need (???). So we drove, for an hour, in a circle. I finally ended up at 36th Street and Division AGAIN, and said, "OK, this is it. Start looking." It was as we approached Brann's, that Elijah and I both spotted him: A thin scruffy man with~yes, that's right~a bag and NO WOMAN. "Hey! Right there! Did you see...?" "Yes! Do you think...?" So we decided to pull into Brann's ahead of where he was walking so that we could further assess the situation. I told Elijah to call it, since I was, by now, unable to see anything at a distance. "There he is!" Elijah cried. "See?" "Yes," Sam and I replied, "Well?" "I don't know," said Elijah. "I can't tell..." The man proceeded to walk RIGHT BY my side of the car, and as he passed my door, and we were trying to decide his housing status or lack there of, and were about to offer him dinner, Elijah wondered aloud, quietly... "What if he's a lunatic?" WHAT IF HE'S A LUNATIC??? Do you see? This is what happens when I try to be a responsible parent and help my children to develop a compassionate sense of caring and social awareness: I drive blindly in a circle for an hour looking for cleverly hidden homeless people to feed, and Poppy and Mom end up eating Burger King at 10:00 pm. The sad thing is, none of what happened tonight is at all, in any way, a surprise to me. We are crazy people. Sigh...

More Mom Math...Trying to figure out my new "place value."

The person who’s most in tune to my every nuance has moved on~married to a wonderful man, establishing her own place in her own world~and I couldn’t be happier for my Darling Girl.  Her new husband is more than I could ever have wished for her, exactly the right match.  I am confident that she will learn to be a wonderful, loving wife to him.  She chose superbly, and I am proud of the woman that she is becoming.  But still, I miss her like I would miss oxygen, if it was taken from me.  We are~she and I~very much the same in so many ways, and…she gets me, like no one else ever has, or probably ever will.  We have a…certain inexplicable balance between us…  That is a great gift to receive, and I miss it’s presence already.  When she left before, I knew that she’d be back, and that makes the missing easier~that ability to think about the return.  But this time…this going is forever.  This going is gone.  Recently, we’ve even joked:  “Fine, but you only have three more weeks to…run to the store with me, help me with laundry, feed the cat…” whatever.  I forgot how quickly time flies, when you least want it to…

So here I am.  All these years of trying to be selfless in the name of mother-love, all this talk of kids first, and what am I doing?  I am sitting here, wishing that it was 9 months ago, when there was no him.  And don’t get me wrong:  I love her him, I do.  He is the best him for her, without a doubt.  But I am thinking of how much I miss her, now that she's gone.  How much I wish that her toothbrush was still there on the side of the sink.  How sad it makes me that I’ve finished the last load of laundry that has her stuff in it.  Realizing how selfish being the focus of her love all of these years has made me.  If I had to give up my little corner of her heart to anyone, I’m grateful and even happy to move aside for the one she’s chosen, truly.  But I admit that I’m a little lost; I loved her first, after all, before anybody else even knew she was there.  And no one will ever love her like I do, no one will ever read her like I can.  I know her heart at a glance…we finish each other’s thoughts, for heaven’s sake!  I knew that she loved him before she even suspected it.  And who is this man, anyway?  Does he think, for even a moment, that he can ever hold her in his heart with the fierceness that I have held her?

I am, as usual, unsure of how to play a lesser~or at least, a vastly different~role in her life…  Our equation has been pretty much the same for, oh, the past 20 years.  There has been her.  And me.  Now, it is him and her, and I am flat-out TERRIFIED of screwing this up, trying to figure out where I add in to the mix, and getting it wrong.  Lord save me from being THAT mother.

As I mull it over, it occurs to me that perhaps part of the problem is that I never, not ever, not even once, had to “let go” of a single blessed thing when I was younger.  No, that business started with~you guessed it~my daughter.  It began the moment that I gave birth.  With her first breath~in the very second that her small, perfect, wriggly little self separated from my body…a lifetime of letting go began.  We followed birth, of course, with a multitude of transitions:  Breast to bottle, parental bed to crib, even mom’s arms to dad’s.  I never worried about those things; it was all a part of it, and besides, at the end of the day, to be honest:  Mom was "The Bomb"~my place was secure~she would always turn to me, and I would always be there, arms open, waiting.  How arrogant I was about holding that sweet spot in her heart for all of those years.  The question I have to ask is:  Have I appreciated enough the privilege of being so loved by her?  Because I’m being moved in the equation, again.  I know that’s how it’s supposed to be, that it’s even a good thing, but I’m having a hard time being exactly happy about it…math, after all, is not my strength, and nobody likes being subtracted.

These are the thoughts I find myself grappling with, and yet…I have seen it in his eyes when he doesn’t know that I’m watching:  This girl~my girl~is his universe, now.  I watched him last week, as he danced with my daughter~his wife~and he held her waist with such gentle strength as he guided her around the dance floor.  I counted the happy tears in his eyes as she walked toward him, her hand on her father’s arm, ready to be given away, to take his name, his life, as her own.  I have listened to him as he’s expressed his delight at the wonder, the chance, of meeting her~of falling in love with someone so extraordinary.  I see the pride in him when he’s with her:  “This woman is mine.  She chose me.  She is standing with me.”  His pride mirrors my own feelings for her:  “That girl was mine.  She always chose me.  She used to stand by me.”  I have thought many times that I can’t fault his taste in women. 

There’s nothing that I have~not one thing~that isn’t that child’s for the asking, and the last thing I would ever want is to have her think that I want anything less than, well…everything, for her; that’s my math.  I was the first one to give this man the green light (and a little talking to about properly valuing my daughter).  I’m also actually excited in some ways:  I think it will be amazing, getting to be wives together.  I am already enthralled, watching her as she navigates this “having a man” thing:  For a relative newbie, she is skilled~patient, unfailingly reasonable and calm, quick to smile.  She’s got this, and as much as I will miss her climbing the stairs to tell me about her day, or to just give me a hug and a kiss, as much as I already have this girl-shaped vacancy in my personal space, it is as it should be.  She is right where we have wanted her to land:  Whole, happy, loved.

And though our relationship is undergoing yet another “definitive adjustment,” perhaps that will make what remains to us even sweeter.  I never dreamed that having a daughter would be like this for me.  I never wanted to be one of those moms who said “My kid is my best friend.”  I always thought that that idea held a certain [potential] danger:  A kid can have a lot of friends; what they need in a mother is…a mother.  Boy, did I underestimate the draw:  My daughter is absolutely one of my best friends, and I am so proud to say that I’m never not her mom when she needs me for that, and she has never had to compromise being my kid in order for our friendship to flourish.

Maybe I’ve been looking at this whole thing the wrong way:  A)  I have a simply fantastic new son to add to my brood.  B)  Yes, I miss her~and him~terribly, but actually, how great is that???  I mean, if our relationship weren’t thriving in the first place, there’d be nothing worth missing, right?  And C)  I’m not the only one who loves “us”~she loves us, too, and neither of us is willing to suffer a loss on that point.  Oh, and he loves “us” as well, so that’s good, right?  That's a LOT of addition.

Sooo, I need to remember that change doesn’t have to equal loss; sometimes it’s actually the dividend of all you’ve been working for, and saving.  And I think that that is the kind of math I can learn to master.

Funny story~NOW...

(Please Note:  Today's blog entry is actually a true story.  It happened some years ago, and I thought I'd share it here, as I am trying to be more disciplined about my writing.  I dedicate this to Julie R., who artfully played the role of the up-till-now anonymous mom.)

I was using my dad's big, dusty, less-than-sporty work van today, and I was at Walgreen's, getting ink for my printer.  I had to lock the van because all of his tools were in it, right?  So, also, today is not a "beautiful" day for me (no makeup, bandana on my head...NOT pretty, you get the idea...).  I get into the store and I notice that there is a "mom" I used to know from the kid's former school, and of COURSE she is perfectly put together, so I spend an extra 25 minutes HIDING in Walgreen's because I look like the Hunchback of Notre Dame and I haven't seen this woman in 3 or 4 years.  She is apparently on a long-term spree, but I finally manage to get my stuff and skulk out of the store un-noticed (by her...I'm sure that the clerks were beginning to wonder about me...).  So I get to the van, and I put the key in the lock.  It does not unlock.  I try again.  And again.  I cry a little, and wonder why I bothered getting out of bed this morning.  I try again in case something miraculous has happened during my breakdown.  Nope.  Still locked.  So, I grab my bag and go BACK INSIDE, where the mom I knew is STILL shopping (holy cow, it's just Walgreen's, not the mall!!!), so I use my super-secret-agent skills and manage to continue avoiding her in my quest for a phone.  The lady behind the makeup counter says that the only phones available are able to make calls only within the store.  She says quite cheerily that I could walk over to the health pavilion across the street and call.  She thinks.  No guarantees, of course.  I'm fairly certain that this is not accurate, that somewhere, sometime in the history of Walgreen's, someone has, in fact, called out.  Believe me, if it is true about the phones, and I don't get into the van soon, they're gonna wish they had outside lines...  Anyway, I go back out and circle the van.  I try the key again.  I look into the windows, which reveal my sandwich warming nicely in the sun, as well as all the tools which I could use to solve my dilemma, if only they weren't LOCKED IN THE VAN!!!  I decide that there is no alternative but to beg, so I dash into the store, narrowly missing the mom, and ask the photo-clerk if maybe she has a cell phone that I could use, really quickly, to call my dad.  Guess what?  She reaches under the counter, finds a phone quite easily, doesn't even dial "9" first, and whip, snap, pop!  There's my dad, on the phone.  WOW.  "No," he's saying... "There aren't separate "start" and "unlock" keys

(&^%$!!!), just the one plastic-topped black key.  It shouldn't turn too hard.  If nothing else, you can get a wire hanger between the sliding rear windows and unlock the back and crawl in.  Let me know if that works."  I don't have the heart to tell him that wire hangers are passe, everyone who is ANYONE uses plastic.  I mean, c'mon!  I trudge outside, arguing with the voices in my head, and do the round-the-van key tour again, with the same results.  I just want to go home.  I have stuff to do.  The house is empty, free of husband and kids.  This is not a Monday.  Why is this happening to me???  As I stand by the passenger side door, muttering to myself and planning how I'll probably be spending the rest of my life in the Walgreen's parking lot, an older gentleman in the car next to me asks if I can't get in.  To my credit, I do NOT say "YA THINK???"  He very graciously gets out of his car, and takes the key from me, ready to give it the old college try.  He asks me, "Is this the right key?  Is it this gray one?"  Nope, nice try, guy, but the black key is the one...theoretically.  About 10 minutes of trying every door and the rear hatch and he says "Are you sure that this is the right key?  This is not the right key.  See?  It won't even go all the way into the lock."  "No," I say, "that's the key to my dad's van," and even as I make that claim, I eye the keys which he is holding, the keys with which I have tried for the past 45 minutes or so to unlock this van, and I begin to wonder:  "Hmmmm, why do you suppose dad has my house key and the keys to my jeep and my Speedway Frequent Customer tag on his key ring?"  Oh no.  So, I look into my purse, and find another key ring.  It looks suspiciously like my dad's, and completely unlike the very familiar-to-me-now set which I have been carrying in my hand this whole time.  The gentleman takes the new key from my hand, lets me into my father's van with ease, says, "What would you do without me, Baby?," hands me the keys and hugs me, all without even laughing.  Tomorrow I take the bus. 

How was your day?

Reinventing the Wheel-A Brief Guide to the Mercurial Nature of a Boy

THIS BLOG ENTRY IS DEDICATED TO MY GOOD FRIEND AND HER YOUNG SON:  I AM GLAD TO HAVE ACCESS TO YOUR WISDOM, LADY!!!

Wikipedia says:  "To reinvent the wheel is to duplicate a basic method that has already previously been created or optimized by others."  Also,... "reinventing the wheel is an important tool in the instruction of complex ideas. Rather than providing students simply with a list of known facts and techniques and expecting them to incorporate these ideas perfectly and rapidly, the instructor instead will build up the material anew, leaving the student to work out those key steps which embody reasoning."  And finally, "The phrase is sometimes used without derision, especially when the user applies it reflexively, possibly to indicate that although his or her activities might be perceived as merely reinventing the wheel, they actually possess additional value. The metaphor emphasizes understanding existing solutions, but not necessarily settling for them."


Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to my life.  I have re-, and re-re, and re-to-the-umpteenth-power-invented the wheel, in my nine or so years of  being mother to a particular boy of mine.  My guy has a few extra "helpings" on his plate:  In addition to having the normal, everyday challenges of just being a 9-year-old kid in the 3rd grade, he also contends every day with ADHD, OCD, and anxiety disorder, as well.  These challenges are not his alone; I stand next to him always, a steadfast "team member."  I will state here, without reservation, that I love that boy all to bits, and I wouldn't change him at all.  That being the case, however, I also am obligated to admit something very difficult:  There are days when I feel completely overwhelmed; that I am the worst mother that this poor kid could've gotten stuck with.  I sometimes feel so utterly unqualified to parent this child that I want to cry.  I love him, as I love all of my children, so desperately that I would do anything to make his way easier for him, and yet it often seems that no matter what words I use, no matter what "system" I implement, we only ever achieve a temporary reprieve, at best.  I see him trying to work things out, wanting so badly to just "fit," but there always seems to be a "piece" sticking out, preventing him from completing the puzzle.  


I have been using the phrase "We're just reinventing the wheel" for a long time, as we try to navigate these different and often difficult processes, but it was only tonight, needing an introduction for this entry, that I thought to look up the meaning behind the phrase, and WOW...LIGHT BULB!


"To reinvent the wheel is to duplicate a basic method that has already previously been created or optimized by others."


Life is a funny thing, isn't it?  I mean, I recognize that I am by no stretch of the imagination the first mother-or parent, for that matter-to find herself trying to figure out this particular set of circumstances; yet somehow I feel very possessive of it, as if it is only mine...well, mine and his.  And in some ways that's accurate:  While others before us have figured out the basic details of their own experience, and how to make that experience work for them, it falls to us-to me, as mother-to observe what I can, and to then develop what I learn; to duplicate and to expand those methods for our family.  


... "reinventing the wheel is an important tool in the instruction of complex ideas."


What is a more complex idea than that of being human?  To me, this means that we are in some ways obligated to find our own way, and to grow through that discovery.  I thought, though, that it was interesting that this spoke of the instruction of complex ideas.  No one is expected to just "get it," automatically.  We are supposed to teach, and learn from, each other.  Realizing that offers an opportunity for me to forgive myself if I don't get it right the first time, every time, out; it allows me to shed a portion of my daily ration of maternal guilt. I'm not a bad mom if I ask someone else to share their experience so that I can benefit from it; in fact, I'll probably be stronger for it, in the long run.


"Rather than providing students simply with a list of known facts and techniques and expecting them to incorporate these ideas perfectly and rapidly, the instructor instead will build up the material anew, leaving the student to work out those key steps which embody reasoning."


Again, this is a rather defining statement for me~with all of the arrogance of adulthood and "experience" I haven't realized it before:  I am not the only "re-inventor" in the room.  Just imagine~all the while I've been busy trying to reinvent the wheel, so has he~and he should...it's his wheel, after all!  I thought that I could come up with facts and techniques, charts and systems that to my way of thinking, would, perhaps should work for him.  The truth is...reinvention~of the wheel or otherwise~means that the best thing that I can do for him is to help him to be able to discover for himself all of the elements of choice:  Foresight, thoughtfulness, awareness and consequence; that is my challenge. He needs to be able to reinvent that wheel-his wheel-on his own, one day. That is his challenge.  I suppose that it's a challenge that we all face; so different, yet so much the same...


"The phrase is sometimes used without derision, especially when the user applies it reflexively, possibly to indicate that although his or her activities might be perceived as merely reinventing the wheel, they actually possess additional value. The metaphor emphasizes understanding existing solutions, but not necessarily settling for them."


I have to say that I liked this, especially. It lends some power to the process, it validates this "re-invention." It really informs the whole idea; acknowledging that by the very act of "re-inventing" our own particular wheel, we add something of value for the next guy; a better rim, or ribbons in the spokes.  The act of re-inventing, then, is not about tearing down and starting over; it's about taking the time to see the beauty and function of what's already in front of you, but not apologizing if you can help it along a bit.  It isn't just finding what's "wrong" and arrogantly attempting to "fix" it, it's also finding what's right, and humbly polishing it to a high shine.  It's not about wanting a different wheel; it's really about loving the wheel you've got, and trying to retread just a little, every day. 

Sometimes, they change the game without telling you: How to find your new spot in the line-up

I LOVE baseball. I'm no expert, but I love it anyway. We went to a ballgame the other night and I observed that, as the game wore on, there were times when it seemed like the players instinctively knew what to do, without constant input from the coach, or from the batterymen.  They just watched each other, learned from the game even as they were playing it, and managed to play successfully.  Which, of course, got me to thinking...

Somehow, at some point, I seem to have lost my ranking with some of my players here on the home team. I used to be the first stop on the path to wellness: Big news to share? Call mom. Just got home? Find mom. Can't locate the crackers? Ask mom. Boo boo? Lost retainer? Broken heart? Mom. Mom. Mom. I'll admit, I have enjoyed that.  I guess that I've always taken for granted that my position in the lives of my children would always remain the same...they'd always want me crouching behind home plate~watching the field, calling the game, catching whatever they threw, playing defense on behalf of us all ...you know, important, "woman-behind-the scenes" stuff.   Let us not forget:  I am the mom, here; this is what I've been training for.  However, I never prepared myself for the day when I'd be sent out into the field; worse still, there are days when I think that I've been relegated to bench warmer.

I can't help but take this change personally.  I mean, I used to get called on to play in every game!  I'm not sure anymore...what is my current position?  I can't be traded, can I?  What can I do to improve my game?  These are the worries that keep me awake, running the reels of past games, trying to figure out where I went wrong.

Then one day, after a particularly hideous bout of "Why doesn't she miss me," I received a card from my daughter, who is living in another country for awhile.  I~briefly~considered not reading it right away...I had already sent off (and regretted) a particularly pouty email message to my girl, grappling with myself, I suppose, to retain some sort of hold on "the way things were," and I was not entirely convinced that I cared to "catch" whatever she was lobbing into home, at that particular moment.  After all, in six weeks, that child has only admitted to missing me one time!!!  What if that statistic is right?  Of course, my resolve lasted all of 30 nanoseconds, and so I read, and was taught.

I learned, with swelling pride, that my kiddo has grown into a seasoned player, in her own right.  She wrote that, because of what her father and I have tried to teach her, she feels well-equipped (!).  She acknowledged how difficult it has been for me to "let her go," yet she reminded me that "growing up doesn't and has never meant growing apart..." that she will "always need me, just differently."  She concluded her message of faith~her faith in my being able to gracefully accept this newest inning~with these words:  "I'll always rely on you, but the training wheels are off.  So, my dearest mother, let your heart rest, be calm and try not to worry so much.  You showed me how to walk.  Now I can run too, so let me.  Now it's my turn to use what you've shown me, to run full speed ahead.  For every step I take, you're always one ahead, paving the path."

Wow.  How beautiful; what a gift.  I have spent so much time watching her, learning all about her, taking note of her strengths and weaknesses, that it never occurred to me that she has been quietly watching right back, and taking note of me.  She has been in the game the whole time, studying, running drills with me while I wasn't looking, fine-tuning  her own skills, preparing for the day when she, too, might have to "play catcher."

So now, I have to re-examine my own game.  Can I accept my new field position(s)?  I hate to go into anything uninformed, so I did some research.  According to my sources (qcbaseball.com and factexpert.com):  "Infield play is important; to become a great infielder you must possess...ability and quickness, AND have a strong work ethic and the desire to continually improve...you have to move in all directions and field balls hit at various speeds and degrees of difficulty.  Outfielders have a very important role in the performance and success of the team. Especially when players start out young, many of them have a hard time learning how to play...well because there is so much space to work with and the balls seem to be traveling much faster...balls are typically higher in the air, as well, making it harder to know exactly when and where they are going to come down.  Players often have a hard time catching the ball, reacting quickly, and throwing with precision, so having them repeatedly practice...can make a big difference."

 I think I can do this.  I can take on a new position, in fact, it sounds a LOT like why I  wanted to form a team in the first place: I LOVE being a parent. I'm no expert, but I love it anyway, and I guess, in the end, that's why any of us stay in it; not to rise to great heights, or even to win every game.  We stay in the stadium, covered in dust, playing our positions as best we can, inning after inning, simply because we love the game, and we're determined to play until they shut down the lights.

The business of becoming an adult: Merging, diversification, and how to know when to do what.

There is, I am proud to say, a new rule in my house:  "You're 18 now, I am no longer required to carry your stuff in my purse or on my person."  I feel so wicked...wicked GOOD!  For the most part, this growing up and letting go stuff is a real challenge for me, but wow...I never dreamed that I would one day be able to declare my freedom from being a maternal pack-horse.  However it must be said~inasmuch as I have some new freedoms, now, as the mother of an "adult," I still have a lot of the same duties as before.

The "my-purse-is-my-own" thing is new; telling her to remember her purse is not.  Also new is the fact that she can schedule and keep her own appointments, without my consent, even though she still likes me to go with, once in awhile, just to be sure that she asks all the stuff she might otherwise forget.  I can now go to bed at night (not easily, but still...) even when she works "till close;" she still (mostly) comes in and kisses me goodnight when she gets home.

This becoming an adult stuff is structured somewhat like a business:  You marry~you decide to take on a partner, to merge your individual lives~and your "business," the business of YOU, which was once a sole proprietorship, will now be a partnership.  You will experience structural changes. You must agree on management styles, decide how you both want this new business, the business of US, to run.  Eventually, you may have kids~think of them as investors:  They don't really buy their way in, but they are certainly "invested" in this business~which is now incorporated~moving forward and continuing to thrive.  As your family grows, and the needs change, you discuss options~you have many board meetings; you discuss how and when to diversify.  You consider re-directing some responsibilities.  There are promotions, and occasionally, some temporary demotions.  There is a need for order, direction, and accountability.  Company loyalty is rewarded.  The benefits are outstanding.  No one is ever forced to retire, even if they bring home a pet without asking for permission.

Turning 18 with our daughter, and seeing the excitement, curiosity, and fear in her eyes has been a learning experience for me.  I couldn't figure out why this number, this "18" and this word "adult" seem to be so upsetting to her.  Then it hit me:  At a certain age (in our family), the children become [limited] partners in their lives; thier responsibilities and freedoms typically increase with seniority.  They become more than "the baby," "the toddler," "the kindergartner," "the teenager."

They are suddenly dressing themselves without assistance.  They know without asking where the scotch tape is.  They begin to decide that they would rather not take trumpet in band.  They really do hate beans, but are there any more carrots, please?  The day arrives when you hand the phone to them, and THEY tell the nurse what symptoms they have.  One day you ask, "Did you...?,"  only to find that they did!  Without being asked!!! 

You realize, with some wonder, that the business is changing again...instead of the sort of "assembly line production" method, where everyone in the family does a few jobs to keep the whole thing running, suddenly, a "unit production" system is being tried out...certain members are not only putting away their laundry..they're washing, drying, and folding it as well!  They truly are "partnering up" with you, pulling a little more weight, taking care of their own departments more independently.  Looking for some additional responsibilities and wanting to be "promoted" to more freedoms.

And there it is:  The unidentified fear I see.  Suddenly, 18 is so much more than just a number; it represents more than freedoms longed for.  It is the world's way of saying, "Welcome to adulthood:  You are now legal.  Your decisions are yours.  Make a mistake, and it is all you, my friend; we don't call mom and dad.  Owe a debt, it's your checking account, your credit.  Get to work late, eat too much, drink too much, whatever...THIS IS YOUR LIFE!!!  You may not go back the way you came; you have been awarded permanent status.  Hope you were paying attention to the training sessions.  Did you think to take notes?"

There is a bit of good news though.  Way back when, during one of the earliest board meetings, several important decisions regarding limited partners were made:

1)  No one can avoid being transferred to the "18th floor," as it were.  It is mandatory.  Everyone will, however, have 17 floors to practice on.
2)  No individual, once transfer to the 18th floor has been completed, will be expected to resign from "US" and take on the universe alone.
3)  While a certain amount of independence is expected, all individuals are encouraged to proceed to higher floors and greater privilege at a reasonable pace, from the home office, if they wish.
4)  All those in "upper management" appreciate being given the opportunity to work with "18th floor rookies" in an expanding partnership role; offering sound advice and insights whenever requested, and strong shoulders when needed.
5)  Our goal is to get you successfully to the "19th floor" and beyond, so that one day, when you're ready, you can run your own sole proprietorship, the business of YOU in a way which will make you happy and proud.
6)  We are in no rush to see you do all of this on your own.  Take a moment, look around.  Breathe.  Remember, in this business, the business of US, you are not expendable, or replaceable.  No one is ever forced to retire, or made to leave before they are ready.  You are all we've worked for.  In you we merge and diversify, and ultimately, we soar...together.  And sometimes, for old times sake, I will gladly, gratefully, put something of yours in my purse.