Any engaged, active parent will tell you that children and teens go through stages we aren’t ready for. I’m not talking about childhood milestones – losing their baby teeth, learning to walk, mastering the ability to read – landmarks which are fairly universal and usually bring much delight in those whirlwind years of early parenting.
I am talking about those changes that we wrestle with, because they are shifts of personality and values that are stark, startling, and profound. I’m talking about the upheavals we weren’t ready for and that knock us back a bit – or a lot. These are stages we usually navigate pretty gracelessly – at first not seeing the sea change for what it is, fighting it or unconsciously resisting it – and then scrambling to keep up as we begin to comprehend: Our child is different now! Twenty years ago I remember my friend Parker telling me about the last time he held his son’s hand, when the boy was twelve. He had somehow caught that it would be the last time (what a gift!), and he’d treasured this deeply as they walked together down a forest lane.
I understand the pain and sweetness of such an experience just a little more, today.
My youngest child is going through such a change. I have not, in my decades of parenting experience, previously beheld such an abrupt shift. This is a child who coslept with me into his double-digit years, and who every day would approach me several times to hug and kiss, who has been sitting on my lap long past the time he surpassed me in height. This is a child who since the age of three would tenderly chide his “Little Mama!” and offer sly, loving affections most times I entered the room. I have homeschooled this boy and I have had more time with him than most parents ever get with theirs. I drank up deep draughts of those days and I never grew tired of the elixir; I always found it delicious. Day after day of these caresses and his beautiful brown arms tangling up in mine and his laughter like crystal warming the home. I had this Eden for as long as one could.
Those days – are gone.
And I mean they are gone, and the change happened within just a few days – after almost fifteen years of such a bounty. I can’t begin to express my shock and confusion.
At first, you know, I thought something was wrong. I thought he was going through a distraction; I thought he was having a bad couple of days.
***
I practice yoga every single day of my life; I have been doing so for a few years. The other morning I moved through several one-legged balancing and strength postures – Tree, One-legged Tadasana, Warrior Three – with confidence, with joy and swiftness, and with a smoothness that has been patiently earned. As I hung suspended in air I reflected on this stability; it has arrived only after years of fairly unglamorous body work, of actively and repetitively engaging all these muscles large and small, finding new support through a myriad of subtle counterbalances. Now these once-difficult movements are a joy to me and this physical delight carries me through the rest of my day. Such is the benefit of yogic practice.
I’ve been practicing parental yoga for years, every day, too. I don’t wobble like I used to. It took me about a week to realize my son had shifted; only a week to perceive things had once again changed, forever. Upon this awareness a torrent of emotions flooded my body and mind; surprise being the foremost, quickly giving way to shock. And I felt, and still feel, a profound grief radiate from within my body’s center, a body blow that is so massive and middle-deep that I can patiently feel this bruise and know that it will last, it won’t shift swiftly. Hello grief! Welcome. Again.
I know, too, that what my child needs the most right now is privacy, respect, and personal dignity; I know not to whine or complain about the change because I have other, better ways to process my pain. After a couple days’ awkwardness, I stopped asking him for hugs. I stood at my kitchen sink and held my loneliness in my hands and knew I would treasure it; it is mine after all, it is not something he or anyone else created within me. It is the gift of many years’ floods, swelling on the beach and warming the sands, and now the sky has turned cold for a little while and frost creeps around the edges.
I started, instead, offering hugs to this child – offering, not demanding – less frequently than I would like. After a day or two he came out of his standoffishness; he hadn’t asked me to change, but he clearly appreciated my retreat. I have slowed down and become more circumspect in how I address him. I ask his preferences. He hugs me differently, the earthy sunshine shifting out of his straw-colored hair and a remote coolness within his slender body; his shoulders ever-broader and his physicality a glancing one. I am patient. I can survive.
And of course, as is my prerogative, I have engaged him directly – but only a little. A little, a little – no lectures and no feelings-talk. I will tell him about my feelings at some point but I will give it time, and I will share with him two sentences or so. For now: I am a parent, and I have a beautiful obligation.
Two days ago I sit with this child over morning coffee and I ask him if he is angry with me; he’d spoken maybe fifteen words to me the day before. His face clouds and a flinch of irritation passes over his countenance and he says, “You said it was just a stage.”
I think carefully before I respond. “Yes – and no. The part of you that doesn’t want to hug or kiss, that doesn’t want to snuggle and that wants to spend all your time with your friends – that’s a stage. That’s a normal part of development, and it’s a good thing. That will pass and who knows what will happen next.”
I continue: “But the part of you that is angry with me, that has thoughts about me and how I behave, those are things we should talk about.” After a moment, he shares. He has been feeling acute unfairness with regards to a housework duty. He believes I favor his older brother in this regard. I ask questions. We talk. After a few moments I can see he feels heard and understood.
We propose changes to our routine, and later in the day we bring them to the other two family members.
I know there is more to talk about. But not all in one day.
When I was a child, my strong emotions and behavioral changes were not treated skillfully. I was called names – “little Hitler”, “asshole”, I was told repeatedly that I was selfish. I was yelled at to “Show some respect!”; I was slapped. I was mocked for displaying strong emotions and I was belittled for how deeply I felt them. I was told, “Don’t be upset!” By the time I was a teenager I felt ashamed of my strong feelings, particularly anger or aggression. I felt a strong pressure to hide these experiences under a mask of civility and inauthenticity. I’d long lost the memory of what it felt like to seek out my parents for physical affection and comfort.
How I was raised, was not good enough for our future. My partner and I have made a different path.
So: my children will not know these humiliations in their home. They will know respect, privacy, and deep nurture. These periods of change, these are the times when we most need to honor their dignity. This is when the habits of our earlier parenting come to the fore and we reap what we’ve sown.
I grew this practice. This balancing practice. It is not without its wobbles, but it is surprisingly stable all the same. I planted this practice while they were small; I patiently tended it every day with ferocity and with persistence.
It sustains us still.
***
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Hi Kelly,
I really enjoyed reading this post. My kids are about 10 years older than yours, and I went through some painful (for me – not for them!) separations around the time you’re talking about and I’m going through some more of that now, again. It’s hard! But I really wouldn’t want my kids to not be their own persons. I know you feel that way, too. It’s just hard when becoming themselves means separating from us, but that seems to be the way of the world. I try to remember to keep this perspective, that letting them go is just another way of loving them. Not asking them to be who I want to them to be, but letting them be themselves without pushback from me about how much it hurts my feelings. My job is to let them go and manage my feelings in other ways, because that’s the best way to love them right now. I know you know this. 🙂
I had always raised them to be independent, partly out of default/necessity because I didn’t have the money to pay for everything they wanted to do, so they went out and got jobs and took care of themselves. I also always expected them to move out and start their own lives; by the time my youngest moved out at 18, I had thought I had been preparing for that for years: I had my own interests, we no longer did everything together, etc. etc. but still I was devasted when it actually happened. It seemed to wrong somehow, so unfair! I had spent 18 years taking care of this child/person. I always knew where they were, and it was usually under my roof, where I could peek in and see her sleeping in her bed, where I knew (pretty much) what was going on with her every day, and all of sudden she was gone. Gone! Just like that. It was super hard. I was proud of her, of course, and I’m super proud that neither of my kids has moved back in with me since they left home. I haven’t had to deal with the “boomerang” situation that I hear so many parents lamenting. “When will they grow up and take care of themselves?” has not been one of my parenting challenges. Instead, when they do want to spend time with me, I feel honored and grateful. And when they don’t, I have developed a new way to cope: I get to feel good about myself for respecting their boundaries. I’m the kind of person (maybe we all are?) that has to find a way to feel good about whatever’s going on, if there’s nothing I can do about it. It’s more than that, though – it’s learning how to love someone the way THEY want to be loved. It’s making me a better person, I think. It’s still hard, but it’s easier when I can approach it like this. I like to think I’m a good listener, but I think I haven’t been with my kids, so much. It’s been more about me than I like to admit. But pushing for what I want has not worked in this situation. That tells me it’s time to surrender and trust that the universe will bring them back to me, if I can only let go enough. “Who cares to admit complete defeat? Practically no one!” Still, it IS the easier softer way. Haha and who ever wants more “character building”? Not I, but sometimes that’s what’s in store, if I can be open to it, to growing. Painful growing. Bittersweet. But loving means letting go, right? Thanks for listening to my ramble as I work this out for myself. Looking forward to reading more of your inspiring writings. Thanks so much for sharing! Love, me