Letting Go of the Person I've Been

I have a photo: I’m sitting on the floor in a circle of moms and toddlers, with Max sitting on my lap. We’re singing a song about flowers. Max is wearing a headband sprouting 6-inch yellow petals. He looks dubious, not at all happy with the thing on his head. In those days Max relied on me for everything.

Parting was “such sweet sorrow”—I could hardly bear it, knowing he would think I was leaving forever. I loved that vulnerable part of him. Once when he had a fever, I lay on a hammock for hours, with him on top, stomach to stomach. If I tried to get up, he would wail.

For most of my life I’ve been a teacher and nurturer. While I was still in elementary school, I started teaching the neighborhood kids to spell. At 14, I volunteered with a Head Start program, serving canned peaches to preschoolers from homes barren of books and love. After grad school, I taught kids at nature centers, devised activities for elders, and then taught writing to college kids for 20 years. 

But by far my magnum opus as a teacher/nurturer has been mothering Max. I picture him at five in his dragon costume, looking over his shoulder at the camera, the threat of mischief in his eyes. Now I yearn to parent him as I once did, with every fiber of my soul and heart. He was my life, my only goal to give all he needed to flower into his full self. 

At 19, Sam needs something else. He needs me to back off, trust him to do things for himself. It hurts to give up the person I’ve been, like ripping out a lovely flower rooted deep in the center of my chest.