Confusing Parenthood (Or, That Time I Cleaned Out Under the Bed)

Last Saturday, I pawed through a time capsule of sorts. Let’s call it “parenthood.”

The day before, my second son wheeled his carry-on through security, moving out of our home–to be fair, as we knew what happened when he was wrestled from my abdomen on an unseasonably warm January day 18 years ago. He finished high school in December. It’s time.

He’s moving in with my (truly wonderful) parents, where the cost of living is cheaper and he can get his first taste of adulthood.

The time capsule

But there I was, last Saturday, pawing beneath the remaining bed of our formerly-stacked double bunks. He’d done most of the heavy lifting, carrying out furniture and tying up a thousand and one loose ends. I wasn’t put out by the under-bed cleanup.

My kids might have cleaned around the edges, though I don’t know that this task had been executed with as much zeal since we moved back from Africa. He was in sixth grade then, his brother in eighth–the one who called me from Guam last week, his first deployment stop with the Marines.

That’s right; my nest is half-empty. Or is it half-full? At one point, I’d had four kids four and under. And just as fast as my house filled, it’s draining.

I’d opened the windows, welcoming the release of winter’s stranglehold on Colorado. And there on my hands and knees, I pulled out the inventory. Including these:

• 1 issue of Bon Appetit
• 3 (not 2, not 4) drumsticks, thankfully not the eating kind, yet
• 1 unopened (again, thankfully), expired can of tuna
• 1 hall pass
• roughly 67 Nerf darts
• 1 mini-notebook of short story ideas in pencil
• 1 boot camp journal
• 4 borrowed DVD’s
• 5 birthday postcards from Christian summer camp counselors
• 2 Tinker Toys
• 1 Lincoln Log
• 2 K’nex
• 1 aerobie
• 1 car snow brush
• 1 Edelbrock auto air filter
• 1 coin from the United Arab Emirates

As I pulled out the battered Nerf sword they’d carted around Uganda and back to the States, vanquishing childhood foes, I wondered which was its unsuspecting final battle. All this crumpled school paperwork was no longer necessary with the boys’ diplomas in hand. I imagined the bed creaking as the boys rolled over in sleep, exhaling; its slats are quiet now.

The “after”

I was feeling, am feeling, sad.

(Recently spotted on my Pinterest feed: A meme longing for “a soundtrack on my life, so I can know what the heck is going on.”)

Because yes, it’s the end of an era; cue Stevie Nicks’ “Landslide.” But as perhaps seeping between the lines of my blog posts, you hear I’m grieving motherhood, and what I hoped it would be.

Sidled up beside the late-night talks leaning against kitchen counters, I expected less of the virtually inexplicable anger both of my sons would wrestle with in their later teen years, lobbed toward the closest person in their path (so often, me).

Tucked among the laughs around the table, I expected fewer searing sibling comments lobbed across the linoleum.

I expected more reflection on halcyon days, maybe less on a vague sense of failure.

My parenthood “for God”

It brings to mind the words of Sarah Condon, in Daily Grace. She writes of her Lenten plans:

I would be a more patient mother in the morning.

….This year I was going to get eight hours of sleep and be one of those mothers who bakes muffins in the freaking morning. Big plans. I had a vision of motherhood that included early morning yoga, perhaps some quiet time with the Lord, and constantly smiling at my progeny.

Her son, however, broke his arm on the second day of Lent. “And I realized that my Lent was going to consist of sleeping with a third grader to help him prop up his arm and praying to God he doesn’t accidentally whack me in the face with his cast in the middle of the night. Again.”

She concludes,

So I will not be the kind of mom I had planned on becoming. But God is positioning me firmly in his own kind of motherhood for me regardless.

We always come at Lent [–or parenthood–] like we are going to shape God. Like we are going to tell him about all our willpower and devotion to him…making Jesus an offer he can’t refuse.

Only, he does refuse. God takes our plans and pushes them further… He pulls them apart and pushes them back together.

God’s long game

Over dinner with friends tonight, as my husband spoke of following Christ at age 16, I realized he was the same age my daughter is right now.

If I would have seen him as a high-school student, I wouldn’t have anticipated the vice-president-of-a-missions-agency, the missionary, the church elder. Far more than who he is on paper, I wouldn’t have glimpsed the man who loves God with such an anchored hope, who loves people with intricate kindness. I met my husband at the age my son is now.

But God, you see, has a killer long game.

Calling any game at the first quarter isn’t done in any sport. There’s so much more to be done.

It’s why a call from my mom lifted my spirits yesterday.

This last week, my son opened a new bank account. Researched and purchased car insurance. Applied for health insurance. Nailed a job. Emptied the dishwasher of his own accord. Drove my parents around a new city, helping my dad after a surgery. He planted trees and flowers in with their landscaping, talked easily with their friends. Rumor has it he’s making his bed and his room is relatively neat.

Like my parenthood, like any child, like me, my kids are a mixed bag of sweeping wins and heart-rending losses. (What would he unearth from under my metaphorical bed?)

Today I’m thankful for a God able to place even the losses in the wins column. A God who brings everything he starts into completion.

And whether the close of this chapter of my life looks like a win for the protagonist or not, I’m grateful to know the Author of a breathtaking ending.

Join the conversation. In what ways has parenthood felt different than you expected?

Comment below!

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