Growing Pains

Nothing has prepared me for my children growing into teenagers and young adults. Everyone warns you about the sacrifices and hard work of raising young children. But oh, the heartache of having them grow beyond your loving arms. One day you’re a blissful zombie. Sleep deprived and set on autopilot. Picking up bath toys scattered around the bathroom for the zillionth time. The next, you find yourself picking up their hairy razors and hollering at them to rinse said shaved hair down the tub drain shudder. If you’re like I was yesterday, you’ll find an unexpected barrage of tears flooding down your cheeks. Lost in longing for the days of bath toys and innocence. Now everything is about their changing bodies and raunchy tunes they hear on TikTok, while I attempt not to let on that my intestines are folding in on themselves in horror and disgust.

Now, I’m no prude. I always looked forward to having open, honest, and frank communication with them about sex and their bodies. I naively expected these chats to be more of an ‘After School Special’ level of sombre education. What I didn’t expect was them knowing what a WAP is or playing me a song with some chick singing about her brown booty hole. I didn’t expect them to say, “Mom, you have a gyatt!” That means big butt, they tell me. Why thank you, kids, you’re too kind. I try. I try not to show the shocked horror encompassing my mind when they say these things. I never thought I would be ‘that mom’. But here I am, reeling at what they already know, thanks to the internet.

One of my favourite self-made sayings is “I’m not raising children, I’m raising adults.” If they’re still children when I’m done with them, and believe me there are all sorts of adult babies moping around in this world, I’ve done them a disservice. My priority is to raise independent, self-assured, resilient human beings. So, to say, I’m trying not to raise assholes. What I didn’t realize is that I may have not been raising children, but I was enjoying them as such. The problem; it’s all gone too goddamn fast.

I can only have faith that all the boo-boos I rushed to kiss, hands I’ve held, tummies I’ve filled with nutritious food, and tears I’ve wiped, will withstand the test of time. One day, perhaps their memories of when I would transform into a ‘Mommy Monster’ and tickle them silly, will bring up a chuckle as they sit in front of their computers. Or the way I, almost obsessively, turned the tub tap to cold after running their bath so they wouldn’t burn themselves during bath-time, will remind them how loved and precious they are when they’re reeling from a broken heart. All the hours and moments and laughter and doting and extra kisses goodnight will mean something to them one day. I just recently read that how your children treat you after they become adults, reflects how safe and cherished you made them feel when they were young.

Right now, they think I’m ultra-annoying. Boring, dull and utterly senseless. They’re asserting their independent selves. The perfectly imperfect, unique beings that I’ve had the honour of caring for. But it feels like rejection. Am I alone in this?

I remember so freshly when their arms were forever seeking me out. When they were brimming with questions about the world, which I delighted in answering. When their biggest worry was whether their special blankie was going to be out of the dryer in time for bed. When all they needed to be content was some fishy crackers and Dora the Explorer. And me. I remember when all they really needed was me.

Allowing them to move out of my safe reach into their own lives is what I will do now. It is a lesson and one I’ve been long to procrastinate on. It’s not easy to let go of loving control as a parent. To accept their complete and separate personness from me. This inevitability feels suspiciously like a punch in the gut, but I will survive, and they will too. And I will always be their home, their safe place, and the loving arms that will cradle them when they need it.

 Leah Marguerite