I am moving from San Diego to Maryland. In 36 (ish) hours, I will pack up my car with my husband and two dogs and drive east, hoping that my household goods meet me in my new town. I am leaving my son.
How dramatic that sounds.
I was a single mom, working my ass off making his life as whole and amazing as I could. I did a great job. He was my priority at every turn. Mistakes were made in MY life – never, ever in HIS. His needs, his emotional health, his boundaries, his LIFE were the holiest protected treasures. I was a goddamned warrior at the gate. And now? HE LIVES. He lives his life swinging both arms hard – he breathes in and out and stomps a fine steel-toed boot. He apologizes and opens doors and says ‘fuck off’ and laughs from his belly. He saves a lot of money and spends a little of it loosely. He reads voraciously and talks talks talks to me until I am overwhelmed with it. He wears me down and lifts my spirits. He is 20-years old. He is perfect.
He is a US Marine.
I want to cling to him. He is still 8-years old! I want to sob and wail and gnash. Drag him by his (purchased by his own damned cash) pants. I am forcibly removing his goods from his (admittedly filthy) bedroom and launching him unceremoniously into the yonder, wild and blue. I am wracked with guilt. I am light as a feather and happy as six (SIX!) clams. I am on both sides of the fence. Sort of.
He has become who he was meant to be. I raised an independent child. He is now a very independent man. He has two investment accounts. He has plans. He can shoot a rifle with damned fine accuracy. He is confident as two bears. He has wings, and isn’t afraid to use them.
He has a girlfriend, lovely and true. She takes no crap and loves him alive and wide. She is sunshine and grass and rain. Their children would be beautiful and I would not mind if the future held that truth.
I DO want to cling. Or rather, I want to WANT to do so. But, on the other hand, he is flying, soaring high with his wings. He is strong and proud and amazing and it is time for him to write the story of his own life. I am proud. I am proud of ME. I didn’t fuck it up. I stopped history in its tracks. I am proud of him. He took the helm of his life from my hands and pushed me into a spectator seat. Disrespect? HA. This is the way the book was meant to be written. His story is now in his hands. And I cannot wait to read it.