The Sh#% Your Parents Should Tell You

Your Parents on Graduation Day

I'm standing near the Tilt-a-Whirl, where little 8-year-old you waits in line with your daddy to ride the ride. It's your first time on a real amusement park ride, the kind for grown-ups, not wee tykes like you. I'm cursing the moment I deferred to your daddy's dubious judgment and his cavalier claim that you'll be okay even though he had to stick folded napkins in your shoes to ensure you reached the height limit.

"She'll be fine!" he says. "She wants to go," he says.

"You don't know that," I think. "What if you're wrong?" I fret. My worry gnaws at my insides like a rabid mouse. I'm so anxious I can barely lift my eyes to watch you choose a spot and strap yourself into the ride.

Don't go, I want to yell. Stay on the ground where it's safe, I scream in my head. But there you are, out of my reach, doing something I haven't done, experiencing something I can't control. Waiting for the ride to whisk you away...

...and leave me behind.

+++

I'm sitting in the stadium, where 17-year-old you waits to cross the stage and grab your diploma. It's your graduation, the day you say good-bye to your childhood and begin your journey into the world. You know where you're going to college. You already know what you want to study. Your plans are big and taking shape, and I can see you've already started packing in your mind, if not in reality.

"I want to go," you say. "I'll be fine," you say.

"I know," I reply. You're not wrong, I'm sure. But worry still ravages my insides like a raging rodent.

I don't want you to go. I want you to stay where I can keep you safe. But you need to step out of my reach and do something I haven't done, experience something I can't control. Let life whisk you away...

...and leave me behind.

+++

The Tilt-a-Whirl begins to move sluggishly, lumbering behemoth that it is. I avert my eyes so I won't witness the million and a half tragedies I've already imagined in my worry-wrecked mind. What if the ride breaks? What if it spins out of control? What if you fall out? What if there's an earthquake and the whole massive gizmo breaks off its moorings and rolls into the sea? It could happen. (It won't happen).

Soon I hear the thrilled screams of your fellow riders. I hear the clank and whir of the machinery – all normal. I'm emboldened to venture a peek and see what this crazy contraption is doing to my only child. I turn, I look, and there is little 8-year-old you, spinning and giggling and glowing with glee. I smile.

You're fine, I see. And you're happy you went, it's clear.

And I am, too.

When you get off the ride, you run into my arms and tell me all about it.

"That was so much fun! I didn't even get dizzy! Can I go again? What other rides can I go on?"

Your joy is contagious, your energy fierce. You run off again, heading to the next attraction.

"Come on, Mommy!" you say as you go.

I start to walk. I don't know where you're going; I'm not sure you know either. But I can't wait to see where you go next.