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Catholic
Education Learning the fine art of letting them go
What is all this juice and all this joy A strain of
the earths sweet being in the beginning ... Have, get, before
it cloy, Before it cloud, Christ, lord, and sour with
sinning, Innocent mind and Mayday in girl and boy, Most, O
maids child, thy choice and worthy the winning. (From
Spring, by Gerard Manley Hopkins)
By KRIS BERGGREN
Parenting, as many a wise mother or
father has realized, is about letting go. This is a point that teachers and
school administrators, and anyone else who cares for children, understands,
too.
Oh, we can hold on to images. I have a few snapshots of each child
on my mental desktop: My impulsive middle child at three, chasing butterflies
on a sunny day, pure joy on her round face and in her sparkling eyes. My wisp
of a 4-year-old on a kitchen stool in her pajamas and an apron, helping her
daddy make pancakes. My perfect firstborn calmly lying wrapped in a blanket in
the hospital bassinet, his wide-open eyes looking at me, just hours after I
finally pushed him into the light. I didnt want him to change, ever.
As much as Id like to hold on to the little
bodies-and-hearts I cherish so much, parenting is about knowing when to release
them. At the same time Im escorting my pre-preteen son into the waiting
wing of adolescence, Im relinquishing the babyhood of my last child, even
though she is still little enough to climb up onto my lap and throw her arms
around my neck. My 9-year-old is emerging from the womb of his close and loving
family, ready to start testing his own wings. Nowadays I tuck the blanket
around him after hes fallen sound asleep, and I stare at how his long
legs and arms fill his twin bed.
Change, they say, is the only constant.
Whether I am ready or not, he is beginning the journey he must
ultimately make alone. He is bound to compare himself to others, to observe how
they dress, act, walk and talk, and to either make moves to fit in or steel
himself for the isolation that comes with choosing not to fit in. I think the
hormones are beginning to do their work of changing him from a boy into a
man.
I think its going to be harder on me than my own adolescence
was, because Im grieving not only the babies they were, but the risks and
obstacles -- and the pain --they must begin to face on their own. Im also
grieving the parent I was and hoped to be, and might have been, and will never
be again in the same way.
For every moment in the diaper-and-3 a.m.-feeding years when I
wished to be free of the never-ending responsibility of caring for babies and
toddlers, for interpreting speechless needs and cleaning up appalling messes,
there is now a moment when I long for the simplicity of that springtime of
parenting, when it was all new and plain to see what was needed. Some say that
days seem like years when children are little, and later the years seem like
days. I think theyre right.
When do the years become days? When does one stage end and another
begin? I never consciously declared, for example, that my 4-year-old
didnt need naptime anymore, but its a rarity these days. Ive
been thinking of taking her out of her afternoon day care program and having
her home with me; shes been crying that she misses Mommy, and
we could enjoy our naptime ritual around which I organized my day for so many
years.
Heres how it went: After lunch, wed choose a book (or
two or three), cuddle up under the covers on Mommys bed, and read until
we relaxed toward sleep. Shed snuggle into my body as I curled around
her, our two selves melding in just being, loving each other and allowing
ourselves to be loved as we are, doing nothing but breathing in and out in the
liminality of naptime. It was a beautiful ritual, but destined to end.
I think my 9-year-old still seeks that still point, the place
where the world is always safe and we are always loved and free to love what we
love, to paraphrase poet Mary Oliver. My son is lately obsessed with a secret
place he found in a park where we go sledding, a little grove of large
evergreens that seems a perfect retreat. He wants to go live there and even
began to empty his closet of a few supplies hed take with him. We talked
about what draws him there; he cant quite articulate it, but I know it is
bittersweet.
I suspect it is so beautiful and peaceful that it makes him sad, a
perfect retreat from the world as he is beginning to understand: full of
conflicting values, tension, meanness and even evil. What I hope he also knows
is that the world is also full of beauty and grace in shades of gray that can
be hard to discern, and harder still when we must let go of naptimes, still
points, secret places.
Growing up is hard for all of us.
Kris Berggren writes from Minneapolis.
National Catholic Reporter, March 24,
2000
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