“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.”  - Charles Dickens

A friend of mine who has three teenage kids was telling my students a funny story the other day.  At one point in her tale about the travails of parenthood, in a moment of great theatrical crescendo, she cupped her hands around her mouth and yelled “No one told me they were going to turn into teenagers!”  The class roared with laughter.  I couldn’t have said it better myself.

I think children should come with a disclaimer.  Caution:  Prolonged use of this product may result in sleepless nights, severe heartache and periodic anxiety.

I know what you’re thinking.  You had to know this was coming.  And of course I did, kind of.   But there’s more to life than knowing.  Sometimes you have to walk through the fire to understand what hot really is.

I’ve come to love the expression, “two things can be equally true.”

There are moments of sheer joy and amazement.   Moments that make you burst with pride.  Moments when you want to stand up and yell at the top of your lungs “That’s my kid”, and sometimes you do.  Moments of great synchronicity when everything is going right.  Golden moments when you’re seeing the ball really well and every swing is a base hit.  Moments when being a parent is easy.

And then there are the other moments.  The moments when the world comes crashing in all at once. When they can’t find the strike zone and all you can do is stand on the sideline and watch.  Moments that test their mettle, and yours as well. When you wish they were young again and you could pick them up, dust them off, give them a hug and make things all better.  But you can’t.

It’s the standing on the sideline that’s the hard part.  I’ve never been very good at that.   I want to go in.  Take the ball.  Throw the pitch.  Anything I can do to...  What is it I’m trying to do again?

Seven years ago my youngest made me a promise.  Sensing my melancholy about him growing older, he put his arms around me and looked me straight in the eyes.  “Don’t worry Mom,” he reassured me, “For you I’ll always be seven.”  Out of the mouths of babes…

Of course I knew they were going to grow.  I knew they would get taller and smarter and braver and brighter and hopefully, be truly happy.  I knew there would be failures but I hoped that their successes would outnumber them and with a little luck, so far they have.

What I didn’t know was how I would grow.  How it would change me.  How I’d be pushed and stretched and asked to face my own limitations. That I’d be challenged to trust the process, forced to learn how to stand on the sideline and hold the confidence that they would find the strength they needed to succeed.  I didn’t know how hard it would be for me to let go and let them find their way.  Nor how hard it would be for me to find mine.

Somebody should have told me to read the fine print.