We are moving our oldest son to college this week. I have dreamed of this day for as long as I can remember. I was not much older when I had him, and have questioned whether my raising him myself was a selfish act or a selfless one. I can say, at the time, it felt pretty selfish. I could barely take care of myself. I couldn't order a pizza without stuttering. I was afraid to make money (will address that issue in my poetry--dailyprosetry.blogspot.com). But I did it. It was hard at times; we were pretty poor and I worked really hard, but I always fell short of my expectations. I think that is what makes his departure from our home so sweet: it feels like despite my poverty, my naivete, I succeeded in raising a (so far) pretty great young man.
I can't let myself off the hook, though. Dr. Phil says not to parent out of guilt, and I agree, although that is sometimes difficult. But what I am really guilty of is parenting out of fear. I have been terrified, from the day he was born, of being incapable of being a good mother to him. It is the circumstances of my youth. My youngest son doesn't plague me with fears and I feel pretty great about myself most of the time, but this, this is my fear. That I've wronged him by making him mine. Pretty heady thought to be knocking around the old noggin for a couple of decades.
Over the years, I've heard it alot: You don't look old enough to have a son that old. I smile gracefully and go about my business. Or I did until last month.
I attended freshman orientation with my son, alone. The parents took separate tours from the students. On the last day, midafternoon, some of us were risking a serious reprimand from the orientation volunteers for sneaking in a coffee break during a session. A few of us were chatting in line, waiting to order the best coffee I'd smelled since arriving on campus. While we were waiting for our coffee, a woman in the group I'd been talking to, who'd already fixed her coffee to her liking, grabbed my arm and said, "I have to be honest."
Now, I'm sure you agree that those words are not followed by anything gracious, polite, or worth uttering. This occurence was no different. "You look like you could be a student here." I smiled, searching fruitlessly for a tactful retort as she (no lie) turned on her heel and smugly walked away, leaving me flustered in front of the other moms.
A rock was in my gut for weeks over this. At the time I was pretty heated, and that night, when I relayed the conversation with my husband, I was downright pissed. Eventually, the emotional dust settled, and my dignity stayed intact.
What she meant to say was this: "You are a statistical nightmare as a mom, and yet your progeny has landed exactly where mine has, and I did everything right. I pre-paid his college. I married a dentist (or whatever...no offense to dentists or their wives). Your kid shouldn't be here. I'm better than you".
Unfortunately for her, my ears and memory are shot these days. What I have chosen to remember is this: "Your son didn't stand a chance, statistically, yet here he is with all of our kids, the people who did everything they were supposed to. He is on a level playing field with our kids, and that really pisses me off."
Well good, I'm glad you're pissed, you're threatened. And I hope my boy kicks ass in college and really makes his life something grand. He worked hard to get there. I worked hard to get him there.
I owe that woman my gratitude. My fears fell away with her words. A little. They were replaced with pride, not for him, but in myself. In choosing to raise him on my own, I didn't fail him. Her words were proof. We beat the odds.
Perhaps our struggles will make a stronger man out of him. After all, they made a more dignified woman of me.
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