Sitting on the couch I held my breath. Was it my imagination or was I breathing less now that I was the parent of teenagers? The grandfather clock, that use to sit in my parents home, struck three. Three A.M. What was he doing out this late? He knew better.
More importantly, I wondered gazing at the street light dancing atop the white caps, when did I contract this disease; this parental incapacitation? Of course, it began as I began parenting teenagers.
I remember when my prevalent thought was how cute and incredible this child of mine was. I remember telling him that I was undeserving of the privilege of being his parent. And I distinctly remember a time when I believed my son was a gift, created wonderfully by a force, source outside of myself. Now, all I focused on were the broken rules, his dirty underwear and the toilet seat that was always up and always dirty.
When did I begin to view this miracle as something to control, an extension of my resume, a reflection of my wisdom and parental giftedness? When did I cross the line from an inspired parent of a teenager, loving mom to slave master, controller, dictator and gestapo? What poisoned my belief and caused me to act as if I was the Creator?
Of course I knew what I must do, don’t we all?
I had to believe – again. I had to replace my desire to control with genuine surrender. I had to go from Dictator to Steward. I had to grow up, let go and allow this little miracle to work out his one, incredible life; in his own way, in his own time.
I had to start breathing again…
Photo by Jeff Georgevich