Let it Be

One of the most difficult things we parents have to do is to watch our children make the same mistakes we've made, and to know that sometimes there is nothing we can do BUT watch, because they most likely will not listen, will not take our advice, until it is too late. This is particularly difficult for mothers, rather than fathers, as men tend to respond to most impending crises with a certain lack of emotion, as in, "Yeah, well, he'll learn" or "if she needs help, she'll call". Whereas, we tend to obsess, call our girlfriends, text our children 12 times, call our girlfriends again, as in "you will not believe what he did now OHMYGODHE'SCALLINGFROM THECARGOTTAGOCALLYOURIGHTBACK!!"

I am going through this right now with my (almost) adult son, who has returned to the nest after a triumphant 4 years at college, triumphant largely because he actually has a JOB. (More on that later, when necessary). I say almost adult because, in my mind, he is still my baby, but of course he is not a baby, he will be 22 in a few weeks. The "baby" in the house is his 13 year old sister, but this is about him, not her. (More on her later, when necessary).

The hard part of having him around is not that he is a slob, because he isn't, and not that he plays his music too loud, because he does but I have noise-cancelling headphones. It is not even the excessive amounts of laundry, because he can, and does, do that himself.

The hardest part of having him around is that he is just like me.

Most of the time, I know what he is thinking, and how he feels about stuff, without him having to tell me, and this is the difficult part. For instance, this morning, he was quietly, but furiously, tearing his room apart, looking for his red rain jacket, which he insisted he put on the coat rack in the hall to dry last time it rained. But since the coat rack is now in his room, accomodating his new work suits, he could not understand why the jacket was not there, since there is where he left it. So he fumed, and muttered, and obsessed.

I used to fume, and mutter, and obsess, and curse, and scream, and throw things, usually when I would lose something. Then I gradually realized that my anger at losing some "thing" is less about that thing itself, and more a matter of control. If I know where I put something, it should still be there, I reasoned. But once I realized that this need for control was controlling me, I started to get over it, bit by bit. I am nowhere near being "over it", but at least I realize that I cannot control most of the things in my life, and am, slowly but surely, giving it up.

All of the great religions of the world recognize this need, to "give it up to God", to "go with the flow". That is, in my opinion, one reason why we have religion, to help us do just that. If I were in a more controlled mood right now, I would find just the right Buddhist quote, the perfect Yiddish aphorism, an apt Christian metaphor, and something from the Hindus as well. Maybe something from the Koran (and I would use the right spelling, which, I know, starts with a Q).
But that is part of what I am trying to give up, the endless need to be perfect, to always be in control, and to know where everything is.

I know that my husband and daughter will crack up when they read this, because they see me as still being obsessive, moving things around all the time, needing to know where all the keys are, all the shoes. Well, look again. Look harder. I am trying.

And I say to my lovely son, relax. Let it flow. The red jacket is somewhere in your room, probably stuffed in a bag somewhere under your bed, or hanging on a hook on the back of a door in your office. At your JOB. Once you stop looking for it, it will find you.

Let it Be...