I’ve been worried about my little boy. Well, he’s not so little, really. Which I guess is the problem. His no-longer-littleness is exactly what I'm worried about.
In September he started sixth grade, which means my little guy is a middle schooler. This past month, he surpassed me in height. He wears a size 13 shoe and is outgrowing his dad’s clothes. (He is 12!)
It’s a mixed blessing that I’m gone at work now for long days. Already, I miss out on his company half the time, because I share custody with his dad. But now I don’t see him in the mornings he’s with me, either, because I leave for the hospital before he wakes.
And when I see him in the evenings, I am often tired, distracted, and still trying to figure out how to empty the day out of me so I can sleep. Our routine of brushing and flossing, then reading stories together helps. Many days lately, story time is the only meaningful time I share with him all day.
This change in our rhythm is a mixed blessing because it’s forcing distance between us at a time when he’s naturally beginning to cleave, anyway, orienting around friends first instead of Mom and Dad. I don’t know how I would give him the space to stumble otherwise, if I didn’t have to.
But I know that the best way for him to learn is to fall, get back up, and try again. I have learned vastly more from what didn’t go right in my life versus what did. But I feel breathless when I even think about what those stumbles might entail, because working so close to illness, injury, and death is making me all too aware how many ways there are for things to go wrong.
Just yesterday I encountered a family saying goodbye to their young adult son, who was dying due to complications of injuries he sustained in a high-speed car accident. My visit with them only lasted about 20 seconds. Upon seeing me, the Mom asked where the other chaplain was. When I said I was the only one working that day, I was sternly dismissed.
Good for that mom, you know? A mama bear through and through. She didn’t need me in their space, making introductions and inquiries as she was in the middle of doing the impossible.
I wanted to sit outside the room in a silent vigil for her and the rest of the family. Because I’ve imagined that hell. Her reality is a fear that keeps me up at night. It’s an awareness that sometimes disturbs my mood—makes me agitated and impatient and weirdly short-tempered with the very being I’m trying so hard to protect.
This year he’s seen fistfights on campus; one of them involved one of his besties. He asked me that night if he could take boxing classes. Last week a dear friend’s daughter witnessed a drive by shooting on the way to soccer practice. I already worry plenty about cavities and blood sugar and homework and nutrients and sports and sports injuries and college. Not to mention the anxiety he expresses frequently because his dad is older than all of his friend’s dads. The thought of him losing his dad is so overwhelming it reduces my rarely-cries kiddo to tears about once a month.
I comfort him as best I can, but hold back what I’m really thinking. Because it would be cruel to point out that we have no idea what the future holds, and we can’t control it. In fact, his dad might outlive me. In fact, it’s possible we’ll both outlive him, just like that mom and dad at their son’s bedside, gripped in a moment they’ll someday long to have back.
Last night at bedtime I was too exhausted to go through our normal routine, so we agreed to skip reading stories. A minute later I was putting paste on my toothbrush when he handed me some floss—he’d already pulled off a length to use for his own teeth. I was so surprised at his initiative I didn’t dare turn him down, even though dental hygiene was the least of my concerns in that moment.
We stood side by side in the mirror, silently flossing. And a new awareness struck me: it’s working.
All of the time and effort and energy and LOVE: it’s working.
In spite of my anxiety and worries: it’s working.
The kid is alright.
*the title of this post is from the poem, Go to the Limits of Your Longing, by Rainer Maria Rilke.
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