When they have trouble with their friends...
When they don’t have friends…
When they don’t have friends…
When they don’t get invited…
When they don’t get asked…
When they don’t get picked…
When they don’t win…
When they don’t understand their homework…
When someone breaks their heart…
So, I hover nearby…waiting and wondering and stressing about how
I can help. I offer lots of hugs and
heartfelt advice (which I’m sure they find “annoying” or “unrelatable”).
They’ll always be my babies and I’ll always want to “fix” it for
them. Always.
I slept on my teenage daughter's bedroom floor last night.
It wasn't a slumber party. It was just all I could do.
She'd gone to bed early, as she does on nights she has that
option, which aren't many. I'd gone to bed early, too, but was awakened around
10 by my mom radar, which is almost never faulty.
Sure enough, light and sobbing were coming from her room. I went
in to find her sitting up in bed, an assigned-reading book from one of her
classes open on her lap and tears streaming down her face.
She was crying because she was upset because she wasn't
sleeping. She wasn't sleeping because she was so tired she knew she should be
sleeping but she was stressed about needing to sleep, which was keeping her
awake. Also, her typical teenage body clock--"let's stay awake until
midnight and get up at 10!"--was not doing her any favors.
There was nothing I could do. She'd taken some medicine for a
cold, so I couldn't give her anything else. She knew all the mental games and
relaxation tricks. She'd already tried doing something else. So I offered the
only thing I could: my presence. I made up a bed on her cushiony carpeted floor,
told her I'd stay there in case she thought of anything else I could do, and we
both went to sleep.
This is how it is with big kids: the older our children get, the
more the things they need comforting from are not things we can do much about.
When they don't have friends, we can't set up playdates for them. When they
don't understand their homework, we usually don't understand it enough to help
them, either. When someone breaks their heart, we can't (and shouldn't) go try
to talk them into loving our baby again. When they don't get the job or the
part or the spot on the team, we can't (and shoudn't) plead their case with the
employer or director or coach. Their hurts are usually internal, so we can't
just slap a bandage and a kiss on them.
So we do what we can, which is hover nearby, waiting to offer
our presence. Our cellphones are on and charged, in case they want or need to
text. We’re ready for a midnight French-fry-and-milkshake run if their hearts
get broken. We drive to campus to bring them home for one day of a weekend when
they need a night in their own bed. We wait up in case they want or need to
talk when they get home. We show up for games and performances and ceremonies,
even when they drive themselves there ahead of time and stay after we’ve left
and barely acknowledge us when they see us in the stands or the seats. We make
them pancakes at 10 p.m. or leave a sub in a tote with an ice pack in their car
for them to eat in between after-school activities.
We aren’t solving their problems. We aren’t doing their work. We
aren’t fixing their relationships. We aren’t making up for their
disappointments. But we’re letting our big kids know that in all of these,
they’re not left on their own. We are worrying and crying and hoping and
cheering with and for them. We are watching and waiting for our chance to
smooth the rough edges, to fill in some gaps. We’re waiting and ready to be
there: on the phone, in the stands, in the car. And sometimes, on the floor.
