How We Let Go

My youngest son turned 18 today, an age of mythical privileges and responsibilities. When I was young but old enough to pay attention to things, turning 18 meant eligibility for the draft during the Vietnam War. And, in some places, it was the age at which a person could legally buy and consume alcohol. Later, and largely because it seemed important to those who could (and were) sent away to die, it was the age at which a person could vote. All 4 of my sons are now registered for the draft, one of those just-in-case formalities that runs counter to my belief pacifism that grows stronger the older I become.

So it goes, Vonnegut said, and indeed it does, though any more I'm not sure where it goes. I look at my son now and try to judge how ready he is for leaving home for college in just a few months. He admits no nervousness now, but perhaps he senses precursors to that churn in the belly that accompanies our greatest changes. Not long after high school graduation I was away to boot camp, and in my self-centered way I think that I was somehow more prepared for leaving home. Is he prepared? I wonder. Have I been good a good enough father that he has managed to learn what he needs to work through problems he will face on his own?

Then again, maybe these problems I anticipate are mine—he is prepared, but I am not. As we enjoyed birthday cake this evening, I wondered if my concern for him is born from the realization that I am losing control of him. For, in many ways, parenting seems to be partly based on control: "Don't eat that, but do eat this"; "Don't talk to me like that"; "Is your homework done?" The urge to control our children seems so strong, so necessary—yes, we must teach our children to be safe, to be "good" in all that word's definitions, to be prepared for the world they must face. But—and this is so difficult—we must also trust them and their ability to know the difference between the wise people and the foolish. Any "wisdom" I have has been acquired through an ever-growing highlight reel of mistakes, misplaced faith, false prophets, and poor decisions, but in the end I am better off for all that has gone wrong.

Is it easy to let go? Never. More sentimental than I can articulate or even acknowledge, I am in a constant battle of reassurance—that the kids are all right, and that I will be, too.