https://youtu.be/GBvSCrRNA34
I lay awake the other night thinking about the kids. Thoughts ranging from worry to frustration and tenderness to sympathy had a carnival in my head. Dramatic catastrophic scenarios, too, came to my mind, a signal that late night thinking just kindles the crazy in me. I can’t physically pick up my children and carry them out of trouble and home to hugs like I used to. Instead, sometimes I lapse into worry. This phase of mothering is lonely and spiritually demanding. When my words of encouragement aren’t welcome, I tap into a reservoir of faith. I have a Heavenly Father who sees me as a daughter who is sometimes unaware of His acts of kindness. He is patient with me, so I can be patient with my children, too.
Better than worry is what I do each day, trying to be helpful. I shuffle down the hall early each morning and sit with the boys, to be met with unenthusiastic response. The secret to mothering teens is knowing that what I am doing is important, even if I am met with bristles and barbs. When they come home, I am where they left me that morning, but hundreds of objects in the house have been handled or cleaned since they walked out the door. Dinner is at 6. We eat together, but sometimes they are in such a hurry to get up from the table, I wonder if they tasted any of the food that went down. My kids always thank me for dinner, whether they taste it or not. They are good about that.
I think in the adolescent fog, I come across not really as a person, but a voice that reminds them to do their jobs. But I know I am more than that. I know that it takes real strength to build independent children. It takes quite an effort to keep a supply of poster board for last-minute school projects and know how to make alterations in clothing; to sit through years of baseball games and ballet rehearsals and years of schooling. It takes love to keep a light on late at night and wait for the garage door to rumble, signaling our child is home and safe. It takes two great commodities, time and self, to wait in parking lots while a child makes steps to get a new job, perform piano pieces behind closed doors, and clean up the trappings of a concert. I no longer walk them in and out of buildings, holding their hands. When they are old enough to drive themselves, I miss our talks in the car.
I know that mothering is important, and it’s a gift. However, the carrying and snuggling from the earlier years seems easier now that I have to be subtle in showing the same things: I am here, I am yours, I love you.
