Weathering
Growing and changing while parenting
I found a stone the other day. It was lying in the freshly greened grass along the stone walkway to our front door. The stone was flat, roughly the size of a silver half dollar, characteristics that distinguished it from the thousands of one-fourth-inch pebbles filling the walkway. The thing that drew me in, though, was the rippled-looking surface, dark grey, wet-looking but not wet. I bent down and looked closer. I took my pointer finger and stroked the surface before I pinched the sides between my thumb and pointer and brought it closer to my face. The surface felt like weathered sandstone. The edges formed a rough and wide heart shape. I set it on the palm of my left hand and stroked the surface again, some childlike sense of wonder settling into my tissue. I felt myself smile.
I brought the rock inside and washed it off in the kitchen sink. The weight of it is different than I expect it to be, as is the feel, and for reasons I cannot explain, this stone is now precious to me.
I love small delights like this. Things like bubbles spontaneously erupting on the surface of an asphalted country road or the tiny flowers that grow in the grass between mows. All those easily overlooked bits of magic that are present every day if only we look.
***
My teenage son went dance-skating across the kitchen floor recently in a moment of pure childlike fun. He is so often serious these days, but at this moment he was just himself, unfiltered and unrestrained, sliding across the linoleum floor. He didn’t know I was watching until I giggled and then I saw him hide a smile, satisfied with himself. I collected this moment and stashed it away in my mind with all the other gems he’s gifted me over the years. Like the time I found a Han Solo action figure in the refrigerator lying on the bottom shelf next to the soy milk. I asked my then five-year-old why Han was in there. He looked at me straight-faced through his little glasses and said, “He’s in for carbon freezing” and then went right back to playing, unaware of just how much this delighted me.
At sixteen years old, I feel like he is angry a lot but I am also aware that I don’t entirely understand his personality. He is a partial mystery to me.
What if I could pick him up and look him over carefully, inspect all the minute parts of him, see all the pieces that I usually don’t? Who would I say he was then?
***
My son enjoys arguing. He will play devil’s advocate to whatever we say, even when he has to craft an argument out of the ridiculous. He’s assertive, self-confident, and decisive. He can also be controlling, intimidating, and explosive.
Mothering this person has weathered me. He’s made my edges smoother and rounder, softened my rough surfaces. It was painful becoming this way. I made so many mistakes over the years. I wished he was more even-tempered, that parenting him didn’t feel like walking into a gale-force wind. I wondered when he would grow out of this phase or that phase. It was, at times, difficult to see his progress. I often responded to him with sharp-edged words when what he probably needed was comfort. I frequently lost my temper when he challenged me with arguments or resistance. I engaged in far too many power struggles. And the truth is, we continue to clash with each other at times, though with less frequency now.
Currently, I am learning to clamp my mouth shut every time I feel a criticism boiling up under my tongue. I am embarrassed to admit just how often this is. I am equally embarrassed about how often I fail to keep these criticisms to myself.
Why is it my instinct to pester him, to attempt to refine his edges in a way that I think will be appealing rather than allowing him to weather naturally? Why am I compelled to act like an erosive force?
***
As a toddler, he had big feelings that were too large for his body. Rage poured out of him in loud outbursts, both auditorily and physically. He’d thrash his body around while he screamed, a terror being birthed from the very core of him. This happened two or three times a day for 45 minutes apiece. Anything could set him off. I loaded him onto my lap and held him in a safety hold to keep him safe. He fought against my body, threw my arms off of him, and then immediately grabbed my arms again and rewrapped himself in them. A push and pull of needing to lash out and needing to be comforted.
His voice has deepened now. His protestations have grown less intense. There is still no way to win an argument with him. He will always have the last word no matter how long it takes nor how much trouble it causes him. So I’ve learned not to engage in this battle. Instead, I rephrase things. No more demands. Let go of control.
I say things like, “It’s your choice.”
I say, “Please remember, you are also choosing the consequences that go with whatever choice you make.”
He has to grumble audibly so that I understand that he doesn’t want to do what is being asked of him but he actively makes the choices now and I choose not to mind the grumbling.
Still, even after the passage of ten-plus years, I can feel my body brace for what might come when I ask something of him.
Some memories live inside our muscles. I wonder what memories live inside him?
***
He was outside shooting hoops on the driveway one evening. I lingered nearby, careful not to be watching or looking expectant. I inspected various parts of our yard, checked the tension on the clothesline strung up between two trees, pushed some rocks off the asphalt back onto the stone driveway while waiting quietly.
Getting him to talk to me is a kind of dance.
Eventually, he smirked and started to bargain for permission to drop out of school. I’ve learned to gently interrogate these kinds of statements, looking for something that is hidden somewhere below.
“Where would you go,” I asked, “And what would you do?”
He thought for a moment. “I don’t know,” he said with a shrug. “There aren’t any opportunities here, though. If I don’t have a job and I don’t have a car and I don’t have any savings, how will I ever leave? I’m stuck here.”
I kept my mouth closed and waited.
“I’m going to die in this town,” he eventually concluded. “And I don’t want to.”
More often than not, it feels like he and I are so vastly different. I am sensitive where he is resolute. But his fear landed in the softest part of my chest, in the folds around my heart. I have a similar fear that has settled in my bones. This house, this town, are sore spots that won’t go away like a blister on the back of the heel.
I wanted to take him in my arms and rock him then, comb back parts of his hair and stroke his soft skin, reassure him that he can do anything, go anywhere. We are never done evolving. And we are resilient. But I cannot predict the future and I don’t like pretending that I can.
Maybe he will be stuck here and have to find a way through that. Maybe his journey of weathering will be difficult like mine or maybe he will soar through the challenges of his life like he does so many other things. It is impossible to tell. One thing I do know: his edges, too, will continue to smooth over time and he will become refined. It is inevitable.
Living is weathering.
