During a decade of mothering adult children, I have learned a few things about myself.
How to keep my mouth shut.
How to say "I'm sorry" when I'm wrong.
And I will always find a way to my children when they need a dose of home.
This became clear for the first time 10 years ago, when my eldest was 20 and four weeks in to a semester abroad in Switzerland.
He had called at 4 in the morning from a train station in Austria, shaken and overwhelmed, to say he'd lost his passport, his debit card and the key to his homestay apartment.
I couldn't be Mom to the rescue; I had to let him replace the missing items on his own. Still, by the end of the week, bolstered by a soon-to-expire frequent-flyer voucher; a flexible enough work schedule; and a certain knowing about a firstborn son, I was in Geneva, Switzerland, having (real) facetime with an adult child just learning to navigate the planet.
I had a similar experience with my daughter this summer. At 25, she was six months into a new job across the country, in Montana, and sounding during a series of phone calls like she could use a glimpse of home. Like her brother, I knew I ultimately couldn't save her from the vagaries of growing up and out. I also knew from previous experience that I would soon be clearing my calendar, finding a cheap airline ticket and taking a mini-vacation to see Montana, and her.
Most recently, it was my youngest. Away, being a counselor for six weeks at a remote Michigan summer camp 432 miles from home, he had one day off before heading to the Japanese island of Hokkaido for another summer job for seven weeks. Picking up on his need for the familiar before going overseas alone for the first time, I asked if he wanted me to come visit on his day off. Without hesitation, he said "Sure!" The next week, I drove seven hours up, spent 24 hours with Benjie, and the next evening, got in the car and headed seven hours back, actually nine, because my GPS malfunctioned or maybe its handler did.
"Are you crazy?" one of my friends asked.
Maybe. But I'm also Mom. Plane, train, two hours or 10, I know by now if it feels like, smells like, looks like I can be of service, well then, book the ticket, grease up the pistons, I'm headed in.
I know some parents who would stand back in such situations. In these United States, when some of us talk about child development, we talk about early and sustained rules of independence, the child sleeping in one's own bed, weaning before the first birthday and otherwise quickly and decidedly disconnecting from the umbilical cord, the breast and the parent. Some of us err on the side of fostering this at all costs. As for me and my style of parenting, raising a child to wholeness also means a consistent show of unconditional love, a recognition of the value of familiar and loving human connection no matter the age or circumstance, and millennials being more on the move than any generation before, with the possible exception of the Vikings.
It's nuanced, to be sure. There are no Robert's Rules of Raising a Child, alas. But f I'm going to err, it's on the side of showing up with my duffel bag and a spot of my child's favorite tea. Unless one of them stops me, which they have a time or two. It's got to be mutual, and I've been Mom long enough to accept when it isn't.
"Not a good time, Mom," my eldest has told me more than once.
Otherwise, I know after these many years, I won't hesitate, but will close my eyes, hold my nose to sticker shock and hit "send" on Travelocity.
Because I know from experience that a person is never too old for unconditional Mom.
Because once I go to them, I know we will share one-on-one parent-to-child moments that come but rarely these days, that also help define a life. Like walking arm-in-arm on a path into the Alps, just the two of us, next to real-life Ansel Adams scenes and talking about religion as we walk. Like driving deep into mountain-ringed Yellowstone, just another two of us, engaging in intimate conversation about life's purpose as we go. Like sitting on a bench at the Sleeping Bear Dunes National Lakeshore in Michigan on a summer afternoon, me listening, undistracted, while my philosophically inclined young adult child reads his favorite author, David Foster Wallace, aloud.
These trips are ultimately for them, and only with their permission. But let's face it, they're for me, too. For us. For the rest of our lives.
Which brings me to significant points of gratitude, to include my own early promise to always maintain solid relationships with my children. That, and frequent-flyer miles. Thanks to whomever invented them.
