When you first have babies they shrink your world. Nothing larger than their little noses matters. And then they become small children, and bigger children, and teens and young adults.
All during those years I called my children, “my children.” Sometime in the last several years I began to say, “my adult children.” It’s factually true, my daughter and son are 37 and 34, respectively, but it was also and is now emotionally true. Something has shifted.
Above you see the view from the apartment my son shares with his boyfriend, on a recent trip I took. A vista, if you will, far mountains pink in the sunrise. There came a moment when I realized that my adult kids were now expanding my world, and had been for a while. The shift required some struggle. I found it tricky to relinquish my role as The One Who Knows.
But at this point, I love that they know more than me about many things. That they have thoughts I could not produce on my own. It’s not just their knowledge of new domains, neurosurgery, art, but the perspectives they’ve developed from living in their particular slice of human history. I can coast in their wake. Which is not to say I’m ready to retire to my rocking chair, just that it’s not all on me.
We always said, when we had newborns, that the mother’s intelligence diminishes at birth, averaging out with the knowledge of the infant. That was certain a joke, but, the reverse, that the mother’s intelligence grows as her children become real adults, isn’t untrue.
Have a wonderful weekend everyone.
