Even Children Get Older...

I’m barreling down the Saw Mill Parkway, my 18 year-old son sitting shotgun next to me on our way to his high school graduation. My kid, dashing in a brand new navy suit, crisp white shirt and dapper pink chambray tie, is a perfect sartorial reflection of his two parents, a little classic and a little quirky.

The week leading up to this moment has been intense and frenetic, as thunderstorms swept the East Coast, arriving just in time for his prom (where I may or may not have been overly enthusiastic during the photo sessions.) And later in the week, a storm of a different kind — my son’s excruciating case of strep throat — necessitating a graduation-eve visit to urgent care for antibiotics and steroids. Each day in this seminal week feeling like a sheer-faced mountain of logistics and worries, evidenced by the pile of sweat-stained summer dresses in the corner of my bedroom.

These manic final days of his high school years were simply a condensed version of the constant efforts in parenthood to thwart the unpredictability of life by planning like crazy. This morning is no different. As we wind our way down the road under the sun-dappled canopies of the trees, my inner monologue sounds like a frantic litany of open questions. Did my parents do the health check required by the school? Did I remember to tell my husband where the extra graduation tickets are? Did I pack tissues in my purse?

I’m pulled out of this endless box-ticking when my son pauses from Snapchatting his friends and asks, “Mom, what’s your favorite song?” My first thought is: “Ugh, I don’t know. My brain is too full of shit to do.” My second thought is, “C’mon Vanessa. You always talk about being present in the moment. Answer him.” So I think for a second (rule out all Indigo Girls’ songs in an effort to seem relevant to my kid) and respond: “Landslide by Fleetwood Mac.”

He gives me a little smile, the same smile he’s been giving me for 18 years, and within seconds, the opening bars of Landslide fill the air. As is by magic, my to-do list evaporates, pushed out by Stevie Nicks’ gravelly voice sliding into the corners of our car. “I took my love, took it down.” I look at my kid and laugh a little, surprised at his putting on MY favorite song the morning of HIS graduation and then gently take hold of his enormous paw of a left hand, perched on the armrest between us.

Well, I’ve been afraid of changin’

‘Cause I’ve built my life around you

But time makes you bolder

Even children get older

And I’m getting older too

As I drive, the tears begin to fall because Stevie is seemingly singing directly to me, about me, my kid, this time in our lives. “Well I’ve been afraid of changin.’” The conundrum that as parents we are thrust into the next stage of our kids’ lives without feeling finished, without truly closing a chapter before moving to the next one. “Cause I’ve built my life around you.” Year after year, putting our kids at the center of our worlds only to have them eventually leave us. The soul-deep truths of this song, tugged out of my heart on this day like saltwater taffy melted in the sun, elastic and messy.

In the car, in this moment, the beautiful and gut-wrenching reality of being a parent stares me in the face: change is scary and growing older is hard, for all of us, but “time makes you bolder.” My God did we learn that this year — me, my son, the people we love. The pandemic unearthed the hardest parts about ourselves, our fears, our weaknesses, our disappointments, and forced us to move past them. We grew bolder, stronger, more courageous. Yet, even in our boldness there is still no resolution, no neat and pretty bow, just the unresolved and effervescent ticks on the clocks of our lives.

“Even children get older.” As we sit and listen to the song together, my son’s life flashes before my eyes — a round-cheeked baby, a sweet boy, a gregarious teen, an insightful man and some days still all of them: the baby, the boy, the teen and the man. He turns to look at me and sees that I’m crying — “Awwww Mom” and he gives my hand a squeeze, maybe a little pleased that I’m so emotional. There are no words in this moment, just love. So, uncharacteristically, I don’t say anything.

As the drive continues, my son moves from one favorite song to another, the bold punctuation marks of his life — the song we played for him as an infant when getting him to sleep; the song the four-year-old version of him danced to in the living room; the song I listened to on repeat the morning of his bar mitzvah. All too soon, we are pulling into the stone archway on his campus, my son humoring me by taking a last mother/son selfie before he goes to meet his friends. As he walks away, I look down at the photo we just took and I see the glow of hope and excitement on his handsome face. I see the exhaustion and intensity of the past week written in lines all over my face. “I’m getting older too.”

Graduation day progresses with excitement and relief, the weather holds for the ceremony, the medicine does its job on my kid’s body. When he is called up for his diploma, our family hooting and hollering from our seats, he veers from protocol and hugs the head of the Upper School. As my kid descends from the stage, diploma in hand, he shouts “Victory!” Two unscripted moments in one, another reflection of how he is equally his mother and father’s son, both embracing and irreverent of ceremony. Our son makes his way back to his seat and my husband and I hug, tears streaming down our faces. Again, no words, just the deep gratitude and profound joy we are feeling in this moment.

I climbed a mountain and I turned around

And I saw my reflection in the snow-covered hills

‘Til the landslide brought me down

This week is like so many mountains we climb as parents, an exhausting and exhilarating slog, burdened by a heaviness on our backs and a steep incline ahead. Never straight or easy or smooth, but if we’re lucky, we do get to the peak and see our reflections in the snow, on the faces of our children. And then the landslide may bring us down again, requiring us to scale the heights another day.

But in that sometimes all-too-brief moment at the top of the mountain, we take the time to feel the purest of pride. We soak up the breathtaking thrill of raising another human being to reach a milestone in his life. These are the times we put away the to-do lists, we stop planning. These are the moments when there are no words. All we can do is hold hands with love, laugh with joy and cry with gratitude. All we can hope for is the brief and miraculous feeling of standing together at the shimmering peaks of life before we begin to climb again.

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