It certainly wasn’t his typical stomping grounds. In fact, it wasn’t typical stomping grounds
for any of the over-privileged children that fill my life, and his. Like most of the mothers I know, I’m doing my
best to help my son understand just how blessed we are, but that doesn’t make
him any less over-privileged. The wealth
of suburban America surrounds the child in every direction – at the private school
he attends, in his upper middle class neighborhood where all the kitchens have
been updated and every two-car garage is filled to capacity, at the country
club where he sits in a chair beside an Olympic sized pool and complains
because there isn’t anyone to play with. The majority of Charlie’s life experiences
have taken place among well-manicured lawns and people with full bellies and
fuller pocketbooks. This is neither
responsible nor right, but it is reality. So, as I said, this wasn’t his typical
stomping grounds.
There was more dirt than grass, and weeds . . . lots of them. There was a faded tennis court with a rusty
fence. There was a lake with leaves
littering its surface. There were
cracked sidewalks, worn out buildings, and a dining hall in serious need of a
paint job. And in his cabin, the one
with the bathroom that hadn’t seen a can of Lysol in months and the mattresses
that might actually have been purchased before my own mother was born, there
was a hole at least the size of a small raccoon in the window (aka screen).
This was camp. And I was leaving
him there for a week.
Letting go isn’t one of my strengths.
People with OCD like to have control of everything, especially our
children. I realize I’m losing control at
a rapid pace as my son ages, and honestly, I’ve never really had the
control I deem so vital in our parent-child relationship. It’s been an illusion from the start and
continues to fade with every act of independence he takes. Still, Charlie is over ten years old and I’ve
never spent an entire week away from him.
And while I understand it’s not a loss of control that makes each day he’s
gone feel so bizarre, the not knowing is still wreaking havoc on my heart. Seven days of not knowing what he’s doing or
eating or saying. Seven days of not
knowing what time he went to sleep and woke up, whether he was polite to adults, if he wore sunscreen, washed his hands, brushed his
teeth.
He didn’t look back when we left him.
I did, over and over, wishing I could hear what he was saying to his
friend as they walked towards cabin number six.
There was no reason for him to turn around. We had said our good-byes,
given our hugs, declared our love, offered our reminders.
He was ready, excited. He was
the one who had initiated this life event after all, two years in the making
since the first time he asked to attend sleep away camp. I declined then, immediately, silently making
ridiculous promises to God if he would just make sure my child never asked to
leave again. God denied my request. He knew I could never keep the promises. He also knew that even if I could, it wasn’t
what he wanted for me anyway. What he
wanted was to provide a lesson in letting go.
There have been many such lessons along the way. There will be many more ahead. They are the hardest lessons I’ve ever had to
learn.
He didn’t look back when we left him.
He smiled and gestured, not the least bit disillusioned by the weeds,
the cracks, the holes. I held back tears
as the space between us grew, have every day since, especially at night, when
the house feels all wrong because one family member is missing from under its
roof.
He will walk away again. He is
much better at this letting go thing than I am, and while it pricks my heart
with the knowledge that his leaving has forever been inevitable, I am thankful. Because although it’s a difficult prayer to
lift up to the only One who is in control, I know it’s the right prayer for a
mother . . . and I will continue to say it every time my child leaves.
May the Lord be with you as you
go, my sweet son. May you go with a
smile. May you go with a friend. And may you go with complete certainty that
the path you are on is the right one, so that you never, ever have to look back.
