“It’s supposed to get to 50 degrees today,” my daughter said as she grabbed her backpack before heading out the door to school. It has been an unusually tame winter, but 50 degrees was almost inconceivable for February in upstate New York.
I noticed she was wearing a short-sleeve shirt under her jacket, and questioned her in a way that was interpreted as disapproval.
“Mom, I sometimes wear short sleeves even if it’s freezing,” said the 17-year-old as she pulled on shoes, her tone conveying slight annoyance.
I nodded. That was true, and as she kissed me goodbye and headed to the garage, I recalled feeling as she had.
In my memory, my mom stands at the top of the back stairs of my childhood home, watching as I load items into the car.
“Do you have gasoline?” she asks.
I assure her I do, slightly annoyed. I’m (fill in the blank) years old. Does she think I don’t know I need gas to drive my car?
My question to my daughter wasn’t a judgment about her clothing choice, though I can understand that she might interpret it that way. Part of it was, Can you believe it’s going to be 50 degrees in February?
But it was much more, a message thought in “Mom” but verbalized in English. The English version is, “You’re wearing short sleeves?” In Mom, that means, I don’t want you to be cold or uncomfortable. Because I love you and I worry about you.
In the same way, my mom’s question – one she still asks every time I leave her house – wasn’t just about gasoline in my car. In Mom speak, it was, “Will you be safe on your drive? Knowing you have gas in your car will make me feel better. Because I love you and I worry about you.”
By nature, we moms are caregivers and nurturers. We tend to the needs of others, we delight in their accomplishments, and we worry about their safety and comfort. Our comments are verbalized in our native spoken language, but they are actually formed in our innate Mom dialect. Some of us haven’t quite figured out how to make the two congruent.
I am trying to accept that my children are getting older, and that they are responsible for their own decisions. If my daughter is cold, she will have to deal with the consequences. When she is off at college next year, I will not be there in the morning to be sure her clothing choice is suitable for whatever the weather. And, quite honestly, this morning she was wearing a coat. She’s probably going to be OK even when she’s off on her own.
But this letting go is hard for moms. We are connected to our children from the very depths of our soul, and this changing role can be heart-wrenching. Because letting go means acknowledging that our children need us less, and we don’t want to be needed less. We’ve been Mom for years, and we often resist the natural evolution of that role.
We still want to know we’re needed. We still need to know we’re needed.
A short while later, I received a text from my oldest, a college sophomore.
“Can I call you?” she asked.
“Of course,” I replied.
I secretly smiled as she relayed the details of her current challenge, grateful that she was seeking my advice.
Maybe we’re not needed less. Maybe we’re just needed differently.
I think I can handle that.
And later this afternoon, I’m going to take a little peek to be sure my soon-to-be 18-year-old has enough gasoline in her car. Because I know she still needs me too.
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