
I counted the weeks. Nine. They feel somehow more finite with a number attached, like nine smooth pebbles I count in the palm of my hand. Nine weeks until Rafe leaves for college.
I’m fine. Really, I am. I’ve done this before. I’m quite accustomed to the scene where a grown-up child I used to hold in my arms reaches into my chest, pulls out a piece of my heart, and then steps into the world on his own, leaving me to figure out how to fill the gap left behind.
I will cry—I have already cried. I’ve done this before, but that doesn't make it easy.
Rafe is a young man now, so I didn’t argue (too much) when he recently announced he would be taking up skateboarding. He had never tried this before, but he was serious about it. He bought a skateboard and began spending evenings at the skatepark with a friend. They needed to go late at night, he explained to me, because they were “pretty terrible at it” and wanted to practice in private.
Hmmm. Pretty terrible at it. I made sure he wore a helmet and only mentioned knee and elbow pads once; his patient smile let me know that would not be happening.
Jordan Peterson says we learn and grow when we “do dangerous things carefully,” and after all these years of mothering, I believe he is right. Those things we aren’t sure if we should let them do, those things that make us catch our breath a bit as they take off, are important stages of growth for our kids. And us.
The big moments, like when a child graduates or leaves for college, might stand out, but truly, motherhood is one long series of letting go. When they ride a bike, go to school, try out for basketball, sing in a play, go on a hike with friends, go to a dance, take driver’s ed, or get on a plane without us, we let go. They test their limits, do dangerous things carefully, and learn and grow.
We are learning, too. This summer will mark 30 years since Dan and I got married. Thirty years since two fresh-faced kids in love said yes to all life’s unknown joys and sorrows together. Yes, to family. Yes, to big stuff and small stuff, stuff that breaks your heart and stuff that makes it swell with wonder.
We said yes without knowing what lay ahead. It didn’t matter. We felt driven to do this family life thing together and could not wait to start. I can look back now and see that this thing we have done together was, in fact, a great, big, dangerous thing.
We did it carefully. And we’re still doing it.
One night last week, I was awakened from a deep sleep at 11:30 pm. My watch was buzzing. It was a phone call from Rafe, who was still at the skatepark with his friend.
His voice was cheerful and excited. “Mom? Can I keep the car?”
My half-asleep brain struggled to keep up. He was not injured as I had immediately feared. He only wanted to keep the car and stay at his friend’s house for the night. OK, I told him. That would be fine.
“Do you wanna see something?” Rafe asked next. “Do you wanna see me skate? I’ll call you right back on FaceTime.”
In a minute, I was sitting up in bed in my dark bedroom, squinting at my son’s grinning face as it glowed from my phone.
“Here we go!” he said.
He turned the camera around, and we went. We swooped down one side and up the other, paused for just a moment before plunging again, picking up speed as we went. The wheels of the skateboard ground against the concrete surface as we elegantly swooped from one side to the other, and I watched, go-pro style, from the phone in my son's hand.
When finally we stopped at the top, I was breathless. I smiled in the dark.
Love is a dangerous thing. Pouring our hearts and souls into the little people God sends us and helping them grow into the people God made them to be is a dangerous thing. Letting go is a dangerous thing.
But here we go. I still say yes. This is how we learn and grow.