Giving birth was the easy part. The crying was simple: hungry, wet, tired. Soon that gave way to more meaningful tears: frustration, a bad dream, a lost toy. When speech came, and words could be assigned to the cause of the anguish, the tears were reserved for bigger hurts: injuries requiring stitches (or at least a trip to the emergency room), breaches of friendship, disappointments real and imagined. As much as we wanted to, we couldn’t shield them from every hurt. The tears became less frequent and more complicated as they learned to navigate the world and find their place in it.
There was always worry: how to keep them safe without smothering them, how to let them explore without becoming lost. So we taught them how to cross the street, to ride a bike, to drive a car. We let them have their secrets, and listened when they chose to share them. We changed the rules as they outgrew them, respecting their growth as they respected the limits, trying to keep up, trying to let go.
Suddenly, they were gone. Not out of our lives, but they were no longer the linchpins of our decision-making. And still the worry remained: had we taught them enough; had they found their passion; would they find someone who loved them as we did? And gradually they eased those worries; those disparate lessons from childhood were melded to inform adults as unique as they were similar. They found their perfect complements and settled beautifully into life. They seek us out for advice, not decisions, and for conversations about things great and small. They no longer need us to differentiate the trivial from the important. They are thoughtful; they are thinkers; they are interested; they are interesting; they are fun; they are funny. The tears now are our tears: tears of pride, tears of joy. They are more than fine.
And still, they will always be our children.
