It's an internal battle this time.
It's sitting on the couch while writing this watching him sit at the table with his laptop writing God knows what: a letter? a novel? an email? an application for a job? I really don't know, and I won't ask because asking could be akin to an answer such as "It's none of your business." That answer still stings.
My 11-year-old sits next to me eating a snack and watching a Netflix show. He reaches out across the space between us and asks me to hold his hand. This is actually the thing that undoes me, that makes my eyes water at the edges of my eyelids.
This week passed quickly--much quicker than the four month summer he's been home. So I take advantage of what I know I can do this week: when my oldest son is standing near me, I walk up to him and put my arms around him from behind. He knows this week he can't pull away. I tell him it's only this week I get to embrace him like this. He's pretty good about letting me do it. I already prepare myself for when my daughter leaves and bristles a bit harder against the hug. She's only 16 but already so entirely ready to leave this pedestrian city behind her.
I wonder if I'm in the stage where all my kids are leaving for 10 to 15 years, or are they leaving this city behind them for good? It's a fair question. I have enough friends with older kids who are returning home with wives and children in tow, understanding that living in Spokane offers a kind of ease and familiarity to it that can't be found somewhere else. (Also, where else can you buy a starter home for $200,000?) But my children assure me over and over, they won't be coming back. (By the way, I am pretty sure my friends' children did the same, so I cling a little bit to their broken promises.)
There are things I'm actually not going to miss: the leaving at 10 pm at night and returning at 2 am which happened 2 or 3 times a week all summer long, the standing at the stove making his favorite dinner only to discover he's not home tonight to eat it, the push and pull of parenting at this stage: "Mom, I can handle it myself." ... "Um, will you still pay for my haircuts?"
School for everyone starts on Thursday, and I long for the predictability that fall brings: the alarms going off at 6:30 am, the packing of lunches and dropping off at school, the FaceTime calls on Sunday afternoon--the four of us sitting around the kitchen table talking to our oldest son on the phone, hearing the happiness in his voice.
And that's the thing really: He's happy. He likes his college he chose, his friends he's met, the classes he's taking. In between the large question marks of adulthood and how will I support myself, I see him becoming the person that I saw in him at four years old when he stood on the edge of the couch, arms waving and him shouting "Watch me mama" as he leapt off of the edge, his Superman cape waving behind him. His confidence in knowing what classes to take without my advice, his confidence in stepping onto the plane without me packing him a lunch, his confidence at leaving us, reminds me of my own confidence at 20.
I am filled with a kind of pride and joy that's really indescribable in this moment. I'm also filled with a kind of sorrow that his childhood really is behind us. But I think he says it best himself in this two and a half minute retrospective he put together last month.
Though I do disagree with parts of the song: "But in the end, the only steps that matter are the ones you take all by yourself..." Having someone by your side helps.
And even though we are 2,000 miles away, we, your parents, Carver, will always be by your side in whatever form you let us. We don't mind being in the back seat when we have to be, but we will always be watching from a distance, our hearts expanding with every step you take!
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