I think your 19th birthday celebration went okay, didn’t you? There was no train of cars going by honking - but there were memorable moments.
Your 18th year was filled with rites of passage that parents, with their high school seniors, are missing out on. But they too will prevail, as in those parents coming behind us. For now, families' celebrations are being challenged by social distancing. Young people everywhere are struggling, and their transitions to a university will be even more complicated by the weight of these times.
Not too long ago, we packed your things and found dorm sheets that fit your bed. We made countless lists of things for you to take with you to the university: applications, financial aid forms, and so much more. The boxes lined a corner of our home for a month or more as the summer drowned on. This a daily reminder to myself and your brothers of this significant event happening to us all, happening to you in the fall.
I walked past the boxes poking down more items anonymously that you would find later. Makeshift first-aid kit, over-the-counter cold medicine, cleaning supplies, chapstick, another blanket, freshly washed towels, and photographs.
It’s hard to describe the swell in my body of energy awakening, happiness, and joy I felt then. I had an awareness of your and my emerging experiences. An event that was big enough for us both, yet vastly different in our unique and precious walk of life. Me 50 and you 18.
I stood before the dryer folding your clothes and doing your laundry more, even though you typically did your own. I cried and cried, but it was not sadness exactly. Not in the everyday use of the word. Just simply waves of memories of every deposit flickering like a film projector - there are so many days and hours of a mother’s daily life that is just merely part of the day - invisible, honestly. I am so grateful I drank them in - that I drank you in, feeling the moments mostly, one by one. There is something so inclusive and grand about caring for and being responsible for another soul. First of body and then of significant dependency. You were not always in this man-body of yours. I am so grateful I was your mother in those formative years. They remain some of the best tender years of my life.
Your father and I, although separated, packed his car, and then you drove away with your brothers along for the adventure. After waving, I closed the door behind me and took an enormous breath I had not taken in months. Thankful to be alone, though not knowing really what would happen. I had yet to prepare past this moment. Faith. Relief. Goodness. And then I opened up a cold one, cranked up a bit of Sheryl Crow and Fleetwood Mac, and cleaned my bloody hell heart out; nearly using a toothbrush for hours until the house sparkled.
And then, like a breathtaking sunrise, you submerged yourself into college life. You greeted being an athlete, new friendships, lecture halls, the L for F-sake, professors, and the great city of Chicago’s skyline out your dorm window.
You will never fully understand the gift of your photos sent to me of your view upon waking in your dorm. It was not the view - but you're allowing me to be there. The moments I encouraged your lead, slowly, you guided us into an adult relationship. Nothing changed, and everything changed.
You navigated challenges well hidden from my view this year. Thank gawd. You called in the middle of the night when you needed to and sometimes when you didn’t.
During the worlds between us, after the homework and baths were done for your brothers back home, I would fall into bed and think of you. At first, something is unnatural about not having your child in your home at bedtime after 18 years together. So, I began a short peaceful practice of giving you back to the world and your life - a prayer...Please watch over him and guide his steps. May you be safe and know you are loved, Aidan.
During my campus visits, I would pole vault into your new world. Odd stains on your carpet (what are fire flavor Cheetos?), man laughter, new voices, and friends. Weird smells. I would hesitate between being impressed with your desk and decor to horrified and back again as I hovered (literally) over your shared bathroom toilet to take a piss. Later I would have an incredible urge to pick up trash or dirty clothing from these strangers (I did not - not this time).
I would have difficulty focusing on a conversation due to the skyrise view and unfamiliar dialog. And then, being frozen, not knowing my place. That is until you would notice and wrap your basketball player arms around me, and my head and face would plant into your armpit.
Man, it’s weird being a mother.
Is it possible to love him more? I would think to myself. Yes, it is, given he is growing into more...more of himself all the time.
Apologetically, it was hard not to hold up the contrast of my life experience at your age as I walked your campus. In my mind, the 18-year-old me emerged in her powder blue first college sweatshirt from a local junior college. I still remember purchasing it with a conflict internally, deciding if I could wear it with pride - or if the lettering announced my inadequacy.
You are so lucky, Aidan, I would think to myself. If you only knew. I’m glad for you. You are so much brighter than I ever was.
As we plowed through Target or visited the university bookstore, sometimes it was as if I was taking a dump (emotionally) on this moment. From big smiles and fun mom to psycho -in a blink of an evil eye - or raise my eyebrows in moments of misunderstanding or plain fatigue as we did, what it seemed your peers and their parents were doing effortlessly. It was a lot to take in, my sweet child. A single mother now, menopause breathing down my neck in a line of sweat, and my first born walking so fast I could hardly keep up - in all its glory.
This is your story now that is taking shape, separating from me in all the ways it is designed for you to do so. You navigated sports injuries, Chicago, new friendships, and an intense class load. Later, you rode the train home without my assistance to be at your grandmother’s bedside. And at her funeral, you eulogized a woman I know loved you as much as I do before you headed back to your dorm.
And then COVID. And you were home again briefly though I secretly didn’t mind one bit. We walked through Kroger with masks on, horrified at the state of our world. You spoke to instructors and took classes from your high school bedroom. You told me as our energies tangled, “Mom, every kid I know is having issues with coming home to their parents right now.” My heart relaxed as your words, though ashamed to say, comforted me. When did he become so wise? This is the budding man I know you will become more fully as the years pass.
“Yes, you can use my car.” and “Yes, we can order pizza.” And, “Yes, you still have to do dishes.” And though I scrambled to regain some level of control in my own life at this time, mothering your brothers, homeschooling, and then running my own business from my bedroom - you continued over and over to give me grace and love as I would reach my breaking point. We were a strong family - we are a strong family.
And here is the best part: we came together daily to connect and laugh and sometimes address the hard stuff - and you were and continue to be a leader and role model to your brothers. They love you, and together you will be men one day. But for now, you are in a leading role—a burden sometimes and a gift as you head back to college again soon.
It’s as if the days are snapshots upon snapshots for parents. And I hold them all like some of the most precious moments of my life. I think of them too as deposits, with any luck, like sunshine and water in rich soil for a tree that grows - and takes root before he is grown and flown.
With love, Mom
Written May 16, 2020
Grown And Flown
Tracy Conn-Bovee