Saying Good Bye to Boss--a lesson in loving and letting go

Thirteen years ago Christopher started preschool a couple of mornings a week.  He would wake up each morning and ask if it was a school day.  When I would answer yes, he would be so excited.  He'd get dressed, get his frog backpack, his lunchbox and stand at the door until we were ready to leave.  I often heard him telling William (who was then only 9 months) all about "chool".  We'd drop Sarah Katherine off at her classroom, and then every morning, the closer we got to his classroom the more tightly he would hold my  hand.  By the time we'd walked the hallway, he had a death grip .  We'd walk into the classroom where each and every time he would grab me and begin the blood curdling scream, "Mommy please don't leave me!  Don't leave me!!!!"  And each morning his teacher would literally peel him off me, he would be turning red, and I would say, "I love you Boss.  See you right after lunch.  Have a good day."  I'd hitch William up on my hip and walk out and to the parking lot where more times than not I'd crumple.

Why I would think am I doing this?  I am a stay at home mom; he can just stay with me.  I'm going to permanently scar him.  Sometimes it took every ounce of strength I had not to walk back into the school, sweep him in my arms and take him home.  Sometimes it took every ounce of strength my friends had to keep me from walking back into the school (thank you Gillian, Lucy, and Leslie), and sometimes I would sit in the car and cry until the school called my cell phone and said, "he's fine."  (that usually was within five minutes).  This went on for three years, three very long years.  I knew he was fine for many reasons, but one major one was that when Chris took him, this never happened.  I knew he would be fine, and yet, my heart broke every morning.  I hated hearing him cry; I hated knowing he was hurt or scared if only for a moment, but I did believe this was part of my job.  Part of my job was to teach him to be independent, teach him to rely on himself, teach him that I love him, that I will always love him whether he can see me or not.  And I suppose in a way, I was teaching him he was his own person--a person created in the image of God, by God and for his own purpose. And so I left him each morning with my final words, "I love you, I'll be back."

Fast forward 13 years--it has not been an easy start to high school for my sweet boy.  Much of it he has brought on himself.  I understand that.  He's made some dumb choices--not life altering, but nonetheless, he's had to learn some hard life lessons about manning up and admitting his mistakes, life lessons about who he can trust, life lessons about what it means to be a friend, and life lessons about consequences that come from dumb choices.  And for another year, my heart breaks almost every day.  I hurt when he makes bad decisions both for him and for others.  I wonder how I can make things better, easier, less challenging? I worry I haven't done enough, been enough.  I worry that going to work is causing this, and I worry that I suffocated and sheltered him for too long.  When I know he is hurt, when I know he is extremely sorry for his actions and/or words, I want nothing more than to take that cup from him.  I want to stand in his place when he is talking to the Dean of Students and the Headmaster.  I want to tell them about the little boy who got in his first fight at school in second grade because he saw someone write a racial slur on the bathroom wall.  And I want to tell them about the boy who went to the principal in fifth grade because a new boy who couldn't speak English was being picked on by all Christopher's friends.  I want to tell them about the boy who held and patted my hand for 3 hours during Caroline's surgery to amputate her pinky.  I want them to know about his deep heart for justice and his love for all people.  But instead, I have to let him stand on his own two feet.  I have to let him learn that how he behaves defines him and that he and only he can change people's opinions of him.  And I have to let him grow into the man God created him to be, independent of me.  And every morning my heart worries because I want life to be perfect for him. He's not screaming blood-curdling screams in his classroom--but just like then, I have no control.  I cannot always make life easier for him, and it breaks my heart.

This morning I drove him to school at 7:30 for his spring lacrosse trip.  We didn't talk much.  We had already talked about making good choices; we had already talked about this being a chance to completely start over, to show people who he truly was.  One thing I have learned is that too many words are just, well too many words.  But I have to admit, my heart was breaking.  I have never been apart from him on Easter.  As we were driving I pictured all those Easter mornings; I pictured him in his smocked john-johns, his sweater vests, his pastel polos, and lately his vineyard vine ties (thankyou Aunt Meredith).  And I thought how I wouldn't see him in church and he wouldn't be at Easter dinner, or at the beach next week, and my heart truly was breaking.  We drove up to school, he didn't hold my hand gripping constantly tighter.  No, he started pointing out who was there, wondering who he was going to room with, and telling me to just pull over he'd get out and I could leave.  I parked the car and he got out.  He went to the back, got his lacrosse bag, closed the trunk, and started to walk away.  But he turned came back to the car, leaned in, kissed my cheek, and said, "I love you."

It's already been a long day.  I'm trying desperately not to suffocate him with texts--not to continually check-in and remind him to behave.  It hurts to have him gone; as all my children are growing up, I am beginning to understand what people mean when they talk about a physical ache for your children.  Today during stations of the cross, the words referring to Mary "a sword of grief pierced her soul" resonated deeply with me.  Jesus was on his way to be crucified; he was on his way to living into his full glory; to fulfill his work on earth, the work God sent him to do.  And Mary had to stand by and let this man, this boy, this child she birthed, nurtured, and loved become the man he was created to be.  May God give me the strength and wisdom to remember my children are God's children, and may God give me the strength to love them enough to let them go and become all that they were created to be.