The Hardest Thing

Written in response to a writing prompt which said to start a piece with "I used to think..."

I used to think being the mother of a toddler was the hardest thing in the world.  I used to think that, but as my son grew I realized it was only training for what was to come.  As he grew, I taught the basics – don’t touch the hot oven, don’t stick forks in light sockets, don’t pull yourself up on the entertainment center.  But now that I have to tilt my head to look into his eyes, I can see clearly a lack of important knowledge I must have failed to impart.

Grades have become a big issue in our house because my son hates homework (as if anyone really likes it).  He is in high school now and building the student resume that will open or close doors for him in his early twenties.  He talks about going in the Marines and being an aviator.  With his knowledge of airplanes and military matters, that sounds like a career that would fit him better than the flight suit he wants to wear.  But then I look at his report card.  He does well on tests but refuses to do homework.   He sees no purpose in it and is unwilling to let the school win.  Refusing to do it, he feels victorious.  He beat the school.  They couldn’t force him to do homework.  He cannot see the soul ache coming when the Marines tell him he has not proven himself and cannot be an aviator.  It is very hard to watch him throw his future away but since I refuse to stand over a seventeen year old while he does homework I usually try to avoid thinking about it.

I am also teaching him to drive.  What an adventure!  He actually does quite well at it.  He maintains a good speed and stays in his own lane.  He concentrates on what he is doing every time he drives – a skill I doubted he had mastered.  But we still have the occasional problem with rolling a stop sign.  And, of course, whenever we do, I get visions of him broken and battered, lying on the side of the road.  What if he is mortally wounded in a wreck and only has time to call and say goodbye like the guy on the news?  What if his only last wish is to feel his momma’s arms around him so she can kiss him and make his passing all better and he cannot have that?  It is very hard to think about the very real dangers of learning to drive, so I usually try to avoid it.

And don’t forget that the teenaged years bring perfumes as well as car fumes.  Ahhhh, relationships.  He has a very sweet girlfriend that I like very much.  I count myself extremely lucky that I like her, but, of course, the problem is he likes her very much too.  And we all know what happens when a teenage boy likes a girl that much.  Hell, we know what happens if they like her just a little.  Of course, being a teen, he believes nothing bad can ever happen to him.  Yes, we have had all the discussions about safe sex and the incredible responsibility of a baby.  But I cannot be with him on every date and when he goes to see her, I cannot help but think about what I was doing at seventeen.  I refuse to think about it for long, mind you.  It is hard to look at my baby and realize that he is biologically capable of fathering a child of his own despite his lack of preparedness so I refuse to think about it. 

I used to think being the mother of a toddler was the hardest thing in the world, but now I know better.  Parenting was so much easier when he was younger.  As cruel as it sounds, I knew if I let my son touch the still warm oven once it would cause him pain, but I wouldn’t have to worry about him touching it next time it was hot.  How do I help him experience just enough pain to understand “it’s better to have loved and lost….”?  How do I make him understand the desperate and certain self-loathing coming when he realizes he did not beat the school because the school was not playing and he has only himself to blame for throwing his dream away.  Do I wish for a small wreck as some sort of perverse vaccination against a bigger one?  

Friends with toddlers have asked me if it gets easier as they get older.  “When they’re older, they don’t need you near as often,” I tell them.  “But when they do have a problem, it’s bigger.”  And harder on your heart, I know, but I leave this out.  No sense in letting them know they are still in training and have not even begun to face the hardest thing in the world.

Copyright © 2010 Denise Duggan