Up at 5:30 (that’s 2:30 in the morning, California time, where our bodies still think we are.) We’re on the train by 6:00 a.m. amidst throngs of people all going to the same place, for the same reason.

We get off the train near the National Mall with throngs of others, the light in the sky shifting from a dull grey to a hint of blue and rose. The atmosphere is electric already; people of every age, shape, color and demographic all having pushed through some obstacle—or many of them—to be here for what they feel is a once in a lifetime experience.

Ari and I wait for several hours in the tunnel on 3rd street surrounded by thousands of fellow adventurers, sharing stories with whoever we’re beside for those few moments until the movement of the crowd separates us and we find ourselves with a whole new group of friends. That’s how it goes. Helping someone find a lost glove. Giving our hand warmers to the teenage girl who wasn’t quite prepared for twenty degrees. Sharing with the young man from New Orleans or the older ladies from Memphis why, despite the crowd and colds,  we each felt we should come.

The day unfolds magically. We eventually emerge through security, believing we’ll now be able to move onto the Mall, but instead we’re told we have to walk 15 blocks to another entry point. Finally, five or six hours after setting out this morning, we find “our spot” and the people within our fifteen feet radius become our family for the next few hours.

The night Obama won the election, my son looked at me after his acceptance speech and said, “We have to go.” As a political junkie and a kid passionate about history and international relations, I saw this as a chance to stoke his fire.

But a power outage in my neighborhood the night of the election meant that I booked airline tickets sitting in front of someone’s house, stealing internet access with their signal and my laptop. Tickets I held while looking for a better deal disappeared by the time I came back to compare them with my new find. I leapt, and booked flights; it wasn’t until the next day, when I could research the whole thing, that I discovered two interesting things: One, hotels were $500.00 on up and two, you needed tickets to go to an inauguration.

But it turned out to be one of those “leap and the net will appear” experiences. Pamela offered her parents house; her folks picked us up and took care of us like we were their own, until we moved to a friend’s empty apartment in Silver Springs.

So we had our adventure. And now I sit in the Baltimore airport, watching Ari chat with a young man who worked for Obama’s campaign in the Asian-American contingent. Across from where they sit are two ladies covered in Obama buttons, hats and scarves. Ari has on his “I Witnessed History” t-shirt. I have my “I Was There” button.

When my son was little, I used to think that when he got older, parenting would invariably be a lot less fun. I considered the idea of having a teenager sort of like a consolation prize; they haven’t actually left home yet, but it’s a lot less sweet than when they’re little boys who run to the door when they hear you come in.

But I have to say, despite the yucky moments and teenage attitude, my son’s adolescence is in many ways the best part of raising him so far. I get to see him discover parts of himself that are just waking up. I get to watch him start exploring what he’s passionate about.

I get to see him turn to the older lady from Saint Louis he’s been standing beside for hours on Inauguration day and give her a big hug as the the crowd goes wild. I get to listen to him discuss Obama’s speech with the history professor from Rhode Island on our airport shuttle. And I get to see the look on his face as I see him listen to the speech of a man he so deeply admires.

Many have said that they went to the inauguration to witness history. As true as that is for me, what I can say even more fervently is that I went to witness my son take one more step along his journey towards becoming the fullest version of he is meant to be.

I Was There. And it was pretty cool.

But one thing struck me about my time with my little friends that I would love your feedback about. I found myself frequently wanting to (“needing to”) check my phone for texts or emails, becoming painfully aware that each time that I did, I was announcing to my little friends that my device was more compelling than they were.

I reflected on life when my son was small. I was a working parent, and used email on a regular basis for most of his childhood. But somehow, there wasn’t the same urgency about checking in that there is today. Why, I wondered, did I so frequently feel called to dig my Android out of my purse the other day? Yes, I had a family I was working with who was in crisis, but they had my phone number.

It seems to me there’s something about the ever-growing, increasingly insistent pull our devices have on us that I believe has the potential to model for our children a rather unhealthy way of engaging with the world—cyber and real—that may not serve them as they grow up.

Given the challenge most parents have with older children and teens about getting them to disengage from Facebook and cell phones to reconnect with family, I had to wonder how a child’s experience of a parent constantly switching on their electronic devices contributes to that child modeling the same behavior.

In one of my recent articles, I referenced a survey by Liberty Mutual Insurance which said that ninety-one percent of teens reported their parents frequently talked on a cell phone and fifty-nine percent said they sometimes sent text messages while driving. These same teens said their parents were their primary driving influence, admitting to repeating their parents’ poor driving habits. When our kids see us unable to resist the ping or beep, how can we expect them to do the same?

I’m not saying that checking emails and texts should be forbidden whenever children are in the room. Nor would I suggest that we shouldn’t take care of things that are important to us in favor of giving children our constant undivided attention. Kids need to learn to entertain themselves, and are not served by believing that they are the center of our universe. But I do think we need to raise our awareness about the message we send when we remain so tightly entwined with our devices in the presence of our youngsters.

It’s now common to see nursing mothers texting instead of attuning with their babies, or chatting on the phone–with someone else– instead of interacting with the toddler they’re strolling. It seems to me that we have to find a way to manage the intense pull our screens have on us, lest our kids learn that being grown up means disengaging from the real world in favor of the digital one.

I look forward to hearing your thoughts, and with you, discovering how we can manage the pull of those highly demanding electronic devices without shortchanging the little ones in our midst. This conversation is a vital one. I hope you’ll weigh in on our Facebook page, or via email.

But they do. This isn’t to say that as I write this, my heart isn’t a little sad at the thought that instead of being in his room down the hall as he was for the past week, my son is somewhere in the sky between Los Angeles and Washington DC. I loved having him home, and am comforted by the fact that he’ll be back for the holidays in a couple of weeks.

But when he tosses around ideas of what he may do when he graduates from college—which in the most bizarre time warp I have ever experienced, will happen this May—I find myself more easy with the things he’s considering (including working in the Embassy in Burundi). There is something thrilling about watching him more fully stretch and grow fully into his life. After all, isn’t that what parenting is ultimately about? Helping our kids be and become who they’re meant to be?

I still miss the days when he was a baby, a kid, even a teen. I still savor the times when I can mother him, whether it’s helping him edit an essay or serving him a great meal. My favorite role in life will always be Mom. But I’m understanding more deeply the strange truth that raising a child really is about raising an adult, and that my job as a parent has to move from nourishing and protecting to guiding and inspiring.

Wherever you are in your parenting journey, I hope you savor each moment without trying to hold on so tightly that you don’t allow for the surprises that are around the corner. Because believe me, there is nothing quite like watching the magnificent “gift” of that newborn unwrap itself into the young man or woman waiting to emerge.

Wonderland School (invitation only)

Wednesday, October 24th

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Crespi School (invitation only)

Wednesday, November 14

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Valley Beth Shalom

Thursday, December 6

Washington Hebrew Congregation

Monday, May 13th, 7:30 pm

All are welcome!

Fifth Avenue Presbyterian Church

Saturday, October 13th (invitation only)

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All Souls Church

Sunday, October 14th, 11:15 am

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Mustard Seed School

Tuesday, October 16th

Marymount School (invitation only)

Tuesday, September 25th, 2012

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Message Group/ St. George Anglican Church

10:00 am, Thursday, September 27

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AAWE (American Women Living in Paris)

Wednesday, September 26th, 7:30 PM

And still, it is all good. I know some of you can’t wait till your kids move on and move out, but there are others who can’t bear the idea that your kids won’t be under your roof without feeling your heart crumbling into little pieces. I just wanted to say–from this end of things–that it all works out, we do find our way with letting go, and it really does keep getting better. 

My son and I have a great relationship; we talk often, and are incredibly close. AND, he is much more fully inhabiting his own life, working (a bouncer in a gay bar), interning (researching the impact of technology on human trafficking), relating (has a great girlfriend) learning (including a self-study of Indonesian) and having fun. When I wrote the piece, below, I couldn’t imagine it would all be okay, but it is. I wouldn’t want him home, or closer; he needs to be where he is, as I need to be in my own life now.

Whatever stage you’re at in the parenting adventure, I hope you enjoy it, and have faith that it’s all good.

Susan

June, 2009
So, I come out of my room on Sunday morning feeling a spring in my step and a sweet tickle in my heart. Had a lovely meditation and am ready to launch into my Sunday; the house is quiet and there are little projects I hope to get to before heading down to the beach.

“Joni Mitchell would be nice,” I think to myself. For some reason Blue keeps playing in my head and I decide to put it on while I make breakfast. Musing a bit about my boy and his upcoming high school graduation, I head toward the stereo.

“Blue…Songs are like tattoos…” and unexpectedly, my heart breaks apart and I’m on my knees. And there you have it―a wave, in many ways the first real one, has hit. A bit like labor…but this time I’m birthing my son as he emerges further into his own life, rather than arriving into mine.

I’ve been told it can be like this. Wild fluctuations in mood―both for the teen and the mom―as we edge ever closer to departure for college, and with that, the beginning of a new chapter in his―in our―lives. But I’ve been pretty good so far, excited for him and living blissfully in some state of denial.

And there you have it. Denial, apparently, wears off. I’m like the bird in those cartoons, flying along and then smacking into the window, caught unawares.

The sobbing is primal, gut-wrenching. I’m astonished by its force, and the sudden appearance of this grief. I allow it, give it space: Take all the room you need, as if it wouldn’t. It’s impolite and demanding, and takes over the room, my heart and this day.

I find myself unable to breathe; the air is coming in and out, but I can’t feel it. I’m picturing him not here, not at his dad’s, not at his friend’s, but 3,000 miles away, which is where he’s theoretically going to be in two months. I realize he cannot go. He simply can’t go. I’ll talk to him. He’ll agree. He’ll understand it was all a big mistake and decide to go to the nice community college down the road. Or maybe some other little college within a few hours’ drive.

Of course I realize I’m insane, but I let myself play that scenario out, coming to the inevitable understanding that I’m insane and he is going to the very best place for him―for who he is and what he needs right now to become more of who he is, out from under my watch.

As it happens with grief, it subsides after a time and allows me to eat something. I wander around for a bit, considering who I might call―what friend who’s going through this right now, or what seasoned mother/ friend/ sister who has already been where I am and lived through it. Instead I just stay present with the waves as they come and go, not wanting to engage my left brain enough to actually try to talk about it.

Eventually, there’s a peace―that depressed sort of peace where you’d like to lay on the couch and stare out the window. But I rally, and set about cleaning out a box of papers, periodically coming across something like a Mother’s Day card or his selective service notice and the waves come again. Knocked over until it subsides, and then another fragile hold on acceptance.

The sadness follows me around most of the day, but it’s kind enough to let me function reasonably well, and even go down to the beach for a time. I watch the six foot five version of my heart play volleyball; he’s arrived not long after me after being in town with his dad. I leave him be, grateful simply to watch him from a distance after exchanging the proverbial head nod, feeling a little like a stalker.

Six pm or so I’m reading, puttering around the house. My son comes in the front door and his appearance is so ordinary and blessed; my heart does a quiet little twirl. And then he tells me “a bunch of people are coming―is that okay? We’re gonna watch the Laker game” and my heart does somersaults and I lie through my teeth and say “I was about to go to the store―can I get you anything?”

I hop to the market picking up burger fixings and hot dogs and skip home and my heart is fully bandaged and intact and life is good and as it should be. They watch and eat and at half time go outside, the nine or ten of them, and play catch with a big rubber ball (really.) The game ends, the Lakers win the finals, and the seventeen and eighteen year old guys and gals go out in the driveway and play basketball, like they did after watching basketball when they were ten.

And grief has left the premises for a while.

I guess that’s what it’s like…These days I’m happy for him, thrilled at the adventure that awaits him. I guess you could say I’m in between contractions…