I found a grungy baseball hat next to my coffee grinder when I woke up at 5am today. When I moved it to the bench by the door, I found sunglasses folded up inside the hat. There was no mystery, just evidence.
My youngest son graduated from college last week. He leaves with a one-way ticket to France next month. As I put the black kettle on to make tea, I spied the kitty sitting on the kitchen table, next to errant crumbs and a crumpled napkin. None of this is normal. I love it all.
When my boys were itty bitty, I used to tell them I was a detective, and that I should not be able to see what they had eaten when I walked into the kitchen. As in, clean up your damn mess. When they cleared their plates at the table and there were random pieces of spaghetti or broccoli in a circle where the plate was at, I would remind them to keep the food on their plate. Eventually, of course, they got it.
I used to ask them, “What’s my number one job?”
In unison they would look up at me with missing teeth, messy hair and reply “To raise two, good men.” Their annoyance came through in sing-song delivery.
Here’s the thing: I did. Raise two good men. We did, me and my wasband (and our extended circle, of course). Even though we split up when they were eight and thirteen, we did it. They are good men, but most importantly good humans. Is it because we went to Divorce class to learn how to not mess them up? Maybe. Is it because I was the Mean Mommy who taught them to do their laundry at 10 and eat what was for supper? Perhaps.
They know how to wipe counters, turn off lights, pay their bills, make doctor’s appointments, see a table that needs clearing, dishes that need doing, a door that needs holding. Not only do they know how to put furniture back after Thanksgiving dinner, but they also know they are helping me get to bed early by not having to do it, and they don’t expect a medal or trophy. More importantly, they show up for their friends, care about other people, are present and grateful for family and compose themselves with integrity that was beyond me when I was their age.
I don’t mind the crumbs because I know they know how to wipe them. I don’t mind because it means there are “chickens in the nest” and I get to play Mom for a little smidge of time before they go back to their lives, or as is the case now, off to an adventure.
I want them to know they can always come home, they can spread out, make a mess, put their feet up and be taken care of. They understand what it means to live on their own and what that entails. They are grateful to have a break.
They are not perfect. Not even close. I see that, and I see them as complete people with flaws, mistakes, shortcomings, all of that. It just makes them real people, and I’m honored to get to see where they work out the bugs, learn from mistakes, evolve. As my feisty, French mom would say “Who wants to be perfect? That’s so boring.”
But really, what tells me that they are good people, that my job review is pretty damn glowing is this: they talk to me, they share their feelings, ask for counsel, show me what they’re working on, tell me when things don’t feel quite right, and stay connected. It doesn’t mean I did everything right, I’m positive I didn’t. But enough went right that we’re here, and more than okay. Some is luck, some is hard work. All of it is a mystery. I’m not sure I could want more. Well, maybe they could flick off the lights when they leave a room.
