One of the things I have long emphasized with Grace and Whit is acknowledging cars that stop for you to cross. To the point where other children have asked mine why they are waving at strange cars. Still, I think that small recognition goes a long way towards a more humane day. I loved these crosswalks, painted on the streets at the boarding school near my parents’ house. Love.
As usual, I was both fascinated and touched by your questions on my Sixth Blogging Anniversary post. I wrote about what I am reading, and which blogs I most devotedly follow. Now, a different question:
Parenting “emerging adults” is an exercise in letting go and it’s both sad and liberating. If you ever want to write about “healthy consequences” or “natural consequences,” that would be interesting to me. What I mean is letting kids learn from negative experiences rather than constantly rescuing them. This discernment has been hard for me because it’s a balancing act–trying to figure out when they need scooped up and loved versus when you should let them squirm in their own doings and let them figure their way out themselves.
I have thought about this a lot. I believe absolutely in letting kids learn from negative experiences, and in resisting the urge to rescue them every time they trip. In fact I would call this one of the central challenges of parenting. I return, again, to Erdrich’s red string that ties our hearts: we have to give children enough rope that they can learn to fall and get up, while trusting that they are still close, that they know the bond we share doesn’t fray when it’s stretched.
As with all things, I only have my instinct to guide me here. And a whole lot of love. I’ve been mulling the question almost non-stop since I became a parent 10 years ago. Several years ago, I wrote this:
It (developing resilience, letting children fail) is about letting my children be, even when there is conflict between them. It is about letting them lose at games and sports. It is about not shielding them from the world’s ugly and hard edges, not coddling them when things are going to hurt. It is about sticking with rules even when they cause disappointment or, more likely, screaming tantrums. It is, fundamentally, about teaching children that the world – and my world – does not revolve around them. This is a hard lesson to impart, full of discomfort and sadness. But it is also probably the most important thing I can teach Grace and Whit.
Obviously parenting, and the need to let go, is on my mind often. More recently, I wrote this:
They don’t belong to me. On that I am absolutely clear: the crystalline, sharp clarity of sunshine on icicles. No way. I brought them into this world and that is all. I love my children too much to handicap them with over-protection. I love them so much that I continue to challenge myself to let them go a little bit, knowing that that letting go lets them build muscles, physical and emotional, that will help them stand steadily in life’s waves. To let them go I have to trust them. And myself. And I do.
I read these two passages now and I nod, because I still agree with every word. It’s actually reassuring to me, a reminder that our parenting philosophies are formed early, and remain sturdy, even as they adapt to the various seasons we move through. There’s a particular poignancy to the idea of letting go right now, though: it feels keener, this need to release my grip, and closer, the day when they will leave me for good. This is true particularly of Grace, who grows so fast, in every sense of the word, daily.
I don’t know how to actually answer my reader’s thoughtful, thought-provoking question. I wish I did! All I know how to do is vigorously agree that this is both a challenge and essential. I do believe that this effort – watching our children fail or err while simultaneously making sure they know they are profoundly loved and supported to the best of our abilities – is central to parenthood. I am still very much figuring out how to do that. I know that my efforts are helped by my fierce belief in both a benevolent universe and the sometimes-surprising strength of my own children. \
I would love any of your thoughts on this: how do we toe the line between support and space, between prodding our children to become independent while also filling them with security and the knowledge that they are deeply, unequivocally loved?
The first time Grace met Whit. January 20, 2005.
The first time I was with my two children.
I am done having babies.
I’ll say that again. I will not have another baby. We are going to be a family of four. In our community, this sometimes feels counter-cultural. There are a great many families with three and four children.
The truth is, for a long time, I felt torn about this. I wrestled with whether or not to have a third baby. I considered how high my odds of twins must be, with my father a fraternal twin (and he’s not the only one in my close family). I thought about how we would have to move, and I love our house. I thought about how much I wanted to live those disorienting, raw, extraordinary first months with a newborn one more time.
But ultimately, I realized was that what I really wanted was for this not to be over. I want to have this phase of my life, this golden moment, not to end. I wanted another opportunity to live – to do a better job in – all the weeks and months and years that have already clanged shut behind me. And that is not the same as wanting a third child. Understanding this distinction, which was somehow blunt and evasive at the same time, clarified everything for me.
I absolutely loved being pregnant. My two labors were the most extraordinary and empowering experiences of my life. While I struggled with my first infant, I reflect on that time – and, especially, on Whit’s babyhood- with enormous affection.
But I don’t want to have a third child. I want to have another spin around the rink, to feel again that gasping, outrageous miracle of small feet inside my body, to surrender once more to the incandescent pain of birthing a baby. But all of that is because I don’t want this to be over. And in my heart of hearts, I feel as though our family is complete. We are L, M, G, and W. We fit.
Realizing this is not without a sense of real loss. It is complicated and then, startlingly, simple. We continue down the not-deciding road of “maybe, we’ll see, perhaps one day” and time slips away. One day we realize that not-deciding was deciding. And, while I wasn’t looking, those days I didn’t want to end, did.
And here we are. Our family of four. My Grace and my Whit. My drum and my descant. I would not have it any other way.
If you have children, how many do you have? How did you know when you were “done,” if you are? If not, how do you know that?
And I’d like a world, wouldn’t you, in which people actually took time to think about what they were saying? It would be, I’m certain, a more peaceful, more reasonable place. I don’t think there could ever be too many poets.
By writing poetry, even those poems that fail and fail miserably, we honor and affirm life. We say, “We loved the earth but could not stay.”
~ Ted Kooser
(thank you to the ever-wonderful Claudia Cummins for introducing me to these lines)
Last weekend my group of college friends held our third annual reunion-of-sorts. The first year went to Florida. The second year, Rhode Island. This year, we met at the Jersey shore, at the house where so many of our most treasured (and, sometimes, blurriest) college memories took place. We were 15 strong: 14 adult women and 1 4 1/2 month old girl. I can’t put into words what these women mean to me. That doesn’t mean I haven’t tried. Almost exactly six years ago I wrote this:
…there really isn’t a day when I don’t marvel at how lucky I am to have each of you in my life. What extraordinary role models and companions you are! We’re all making – and will continue to make – different and varied choices, and I trust that we’ll continue to respect and honor each other no matter what those choices are. This kind of implicit understanding is rare and special, and the further I travel away from Princeton the more convinced I am that the friendships I made there will be the most enduring of my life. There will be and are other incredibly special friends, but as a community you all are ground zero: yardstick and safe haven, the people who knew me when I was becoming who I am.
I can’t possibly capture the weekend in words, but I will try to sketch it in data:
Number of years we have all known each other: 20 (for a handful of us, that is 23 or more, because we went to high school together)
Lobsters consumed on Saturday night: 12
Children between us: 24 (and another one will join the team this winter)
Bottles of white wine we drank: lost track
Advanced degrees we hold: 16
States we live in: 9
Bottles of red wine we drank: 4
Pairs of J Brand skinny cargo pants worn: at least 5
Number of times I laughed so hard my stomach hurt: more than I can count
Photos from college scanned in for a slideshow: over 100
Hours on the playlist KEB made for us to dance to: 4.5
Love I have for these women, who are the baseline and the heartbeat of my life: infinite