My son is moving away from home. To New York. Imminently.
It’s a good move. He’s moving with a family we've known for
years in part so one of his best friends can live away from home since his second
Job Corps trade he was expecting to be able to take got sequestered out from
under him. The original plan had been for him to be at Job Corps until he was
18, but now he’s going to be out at 17 and needed a roommate over 18 for his
mom to be comfortable with him not living at home. The boys get along quite
well and I believe my son will benefit from having the added responsibility of
a younger roomie.
I also think my kid needs to get away from home. He’s trying
to stretch his wings and fly, but coming from a broken home, he has two very
different sets of ideals coming at him. I think some distance will allow him to
find the parts of his father’s and my philosophies that speak to him without us
right there on top of him while he does it. Distance =perspective, right? I
think he needs some freedom to screw up without us right there to save him too.
I like that he’ll get that with the safety net of near-family to catch him…it’s
not a no-net situation, but the net may be farther away and looser knit that
the one here.
I’m excited for him. I am: but the implications of him being
gone really hit home this weekend as he packed up his belongings and put
everything he wasn't taking with him into storage. Seeing boxes full of my child’s belongings
scattered through my living room made him no longer being in arm’s reach real in a way it wasn't before.
I am not a sheltering mom. I am nurturing and (sometimes)
compassionate, but I also believe there is no greater teacher than experience.
I am the mom who says, “Hey, I wouldn't do that if I were you. Really, if you
do that you could hurt yourself. Oh hey, you hurt yourself; look at that. Come
get some snuggles and calm down and let’s talk about how you got hurt. Did I
say that was a bad idea, yes I did.”
But…I am so in love with this kid. He was my second born, the
first child of my second marriage, thus the eldest of my second family. He’s
funny and charming and, yes, a bit of a butt-head (damn kids…you raise them and
then you know what? They ACT JUST LIKE YOU! Sheesh). To me, no matter how much
taller than me he gets (he’s 18 1/2 he’ll grow more), or how old he grows (I
was just expressing to The Man recently that I’m looking forward to seeing my
kids as they get old), he will always be the chubby, jolly baby I let gnaw on
frozen carrots to ease his teething pains, the toddler who taught himself to
read a clock so he’d know what time things should happen and woe betide me if I
told him I’d do something in five minutes and then take longer than that, the
first grader who took the new kid under his wing, the middle schooler who fell
in love with classical music, the high schooler who lived, ate, slept, and
dreamed marching band.
He is my little boy…and he’s leaving home.
*sob*
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