It used to be that if some piece of
furniture needed to be moved, Bill and I would do it together. Our fondness for
deals on used furniture early in our marriage meant that we rarely had anything
delivered. Many memories of my twenties include walking backwards under the
impossible weight of one side of a couch or table. Bill tried to be patient
with my distance runner arms and limited strength, but my memories also include
Bill sighing with impatience every time I had to put my side down to take a break,
which was frequently.
“You
could have married someone burlier, if that was important to you,” I’d remind
him.
I’m
not sure when it was that I moved my last piece of heavy furniture, and I
certainly didn’t note it as a milestone, but one by one, as Jacob, Liam and
Teenasia have grown, each one of them has surpassed me in strength—and not just
by a little. Early in her eighth grade year, I commented to Teenasia, who is
shorter than I, that I thought she was now probably stronger. She nodded with a
bit of an eye roll that suggested this was very obvious, and then picked me up
and moved me to a different part of the kitchen. I think Bill might still
choose me over sixth-grade Jamie, as a moving partner, if we were the only two
choices available, but more likely, he’d just wait for Teenasia or Liam to get
home.
There’s
much about parenting older kids that makes me wistful for the younger
years—toothless smiles; matching Easter dresses; plastic dinosaurs. But as my
children grow up, I have to say that if given the opportunity to go back in
time, I’d be glad to visit our younger selves, but I wouldn’t want to stay
there. I like having kids who are physically stronger than me. It’s interesting
to have sons who have gone further than I ever did in math and foreign language
studies. I appreciate being able to text Liam at track practice and ask him to
bring home a loaf of bread for dinner. So many parts of parenting involve
helping children master bits and pieces of their own lives. What I’m
discovering is as mastery comes, the parent and child relationship shifts. Less
of my time is spent telling Jacob and Liam what to do, and more time is spent
asking them questions about their activities; their thoughts; their plans. I am
carrying less weight—not just in terms of furniture, but in terms of mental
energy—because of the emerging adults I see. And what I carry for the boys, for the most
part, is what they ask me to carry. Unlike younger kids, who insist on doing
things themselves, even in the face of disaster, my young adult sons are smart
enough to know the areas where Bill and I are still ahead. They won’t ask me
about Ultimate Frisbee plays, but they will question me about running or
writing; they will never come to me for tech support, but they’ll approach with
questions about faith or relationships. Jacob wouldn’t sign a lease for next
year’s apartment without Bill and me seeing it; Liam needed to know we thought
he was choosing correctly, when he decided on Santa Clara University.
And
while my daughters still hover in the preteen and early adolescent phase, I see
occasional flashes of the young women they will become. Mixed in with their
growing physical strength, I see emotional strength developing.
A
couple weeks ago, we had the hardwood floor of our bedroom refinished. We had
to remove both dressers and the bed so that the work could be done. Bill and
Liam did all the moving and I wasn’t needed.
I
didn’t mind stepping aside. My strength will be needed for other things.
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