Sometimes Clueless is Okay

Our kids are essentially grown. I'm not quite sure how all that happened; I think I may have blinked.
I remember one morning about ten years ago, as I lay in bed enjoying a few quiet moments before the day onslaughtered me, I had the most astounding thought. I had done it. My oldest son had just turned 18. I had raised a kid. How the heck did that happen?

















I recalled people who told me, when all five of the kids were under 10, that the teenage years were going to kill me, and while I didn’t truly believe them, a portion of me kept itself braced for torture and misery that just never came.


My kids have been amazing: independent, assertive, contrary and ornery at times, but always incredibly interesting to me. They are talented, bright, capable and creative. The older they get, the more I love ‘em . . . and I was pretty whupped at birth, just for the record. The teen years were harder on some of them than others, but far worse for them than they ever were for me.

My mother-in-law lived by the credo, “My job is to work myself out of a job.” It’s only one of the bits of wisdom I have gratefully plagiarized from her book on parenting. As I have watched my hatchlings flap and flail their wings in preparation for that big first step out of the nest, I have harbored a couple of fears and an abundance of hope for them.

I worry about whether I equipped them to be happy in life. Are they enjoying the journey, or did I weigh them down with so much rhetoric about being responsible and saving money and cleaning the toilet and dusting the base-shoe (a particularly strange obsession of mine) that they’ll miss the joys all around them?

I worry about their choice of spouse; not because it’s any of my business just who it is that they choose, but because I know with certainty that that one choice can turn night to day or vice versa in regards to their long-term peace of mind and self-satisfaction, not to mention the ramifications on who’s going to raise my grandbabies! Oh, yeah, right . . . not my choice (rinse out brain and repeat!).

What I tell them, though, is this: they have no idea.

In all their planning (which is very good to do) and preparing (which is essential) and dreaming (which part cannot be forgotten), there is no way for them to know just which way life is going to twist and turn them. Having a plan gets you on the road and headed somewhere, and along that road will be side-tracks and exits and detours and roadblocks. That’s where the real adventure begins, which may be why I’m so concerned about who they choose to take along with them. Having a life’s partner whose alternate identity is McGyver would be a big help!

From time to time, I hear them wistfully comment that they’d just like to know what the future holds for them. I used to wish that, too. Sometimes I still do, but I’ve learned that the not knowing is what hones our problem-solving skills. It teaches us to think, and to try to be wise. If we let it, it can teach us self-restraint and discipline. It can also teach us to relax just long enough to revel in a glorious sunset even with a zeroed-out bank account.

I believe in living in the moment. I believe in childish wonder, especially for old farts. I don’t believe that things happen by chance. I believe that if we look, with humility and curiosity, we can glimpse how all the little pieces fit together to make our lives whole, imperfect or otherwise. I don’t believe in giving up, and I don’t believe we’re ever completely alone. I hope I remembered to teach them that.