Yesterday my baby turned sixteen. At 8:00 a.m. we were at the DMV to take her drivers license test and she passed. She was giddy – beyond excited as she immediately declared how she will meet her friends for lunch and the movies and take herself to and from school. Me? Not so much.
As she drove us home, I began contemplating how fast the time has gone by. I swore it was only a few years earlier when we went to Mommy and Me. We would sing all those silly songs that she loved, like The Wheels on the Bus Go Round and Round and Ride a Little Horsy. It seemed like only weeks ago that I read her Goodnight Moon as she slid her soft little fingers around the silk border of her favorite blankie and sweetly gazed up at me before falling off to sleep. And, I’m quite certain that it was only days earlier when I dropped her off at preschool feeling ambivalent about my leaving her there as we both held back our tears.
And now, after sixteen birthdays, 19 dance and piano recitals, 28 volleyball games, 42 swim meets and several graduations, I am honestly feeling deeply sad. I know this because I pull on my neck when I’m sad – which is not so good because my neck is beginning to resemble a turkey wattle and I would much rather spend my hard earned money on a vacation than on a plastic surgeon whose job it is to tighten wattles – or do they suction wattles? I’ll get back to you on that.
At dinner last evening, she proceeded to ask me to take her to a senior party at 10:00 p.m. next weekend. I peppered questions at her faster than Bode Miller skis down a black diamond run. Will the parents be home? Will alcohol be served? What if someone offers you a joint? Why does this party start so late? Aren’t you too young for a senior party? Who’s going to be there? I was as tight as those skinny jeans my daughter wears – and all over my neck again.
In the spirit of keeping my neck put, I worked tirelessly to collect my thoughts. Was I just feeling some clean pain around my daughter’s milestone? Or was I experiencing dirty pain? Clean pain versus dirty pain is actually a concept pioneered by Dr. Stephen Hayes and is the cornerstone of Acceptance and Commitment Therapy (ACT). Very simply, clean pain is when something bad happens to you. (Your partner dies. You get into a car accident. Your neck falls down.) Dirty pain is the result of our thoughts about the painful event. (You’ll never find love again. Bad drivers should serve time. No one will hire a coach who sports a turkey wattle.)
My daughter turning sixteen was certainly not something bad that was happening to me. I can’t liken it to a death or my best friend moving away. So, the next question I asked myself was:
What am I making it mean that my daughter is turning sixteen?
(As you’re reading this, I encourage you to come up with something, anything that compels you to bite your nails, want to strangle bad drivers or pull on your own neck. In other words, is there anything that makes you worry, feel sad or even just a little pissed off?)
I know what I was thinking:
I’m not ready to wrap up this mothering thing yet.
She won’t need me anymore as she moves towards her friends and away from me.
I cannot protect her and she will get hurt.
Clearly, these thoughts are not mere grass stains. They’re tough and require some heavy duty scouring.
After much self coaching, I realized this:
• There’s nothing to wrap up but my thoughts. I will always be the mother of my children. Perhaps it’s time to mother myself. What do I want and need now that my child is more independent and self reliant?
• I don’t need to keep my child small so I can feel large. Looking outside myself, to my children, my husband or anyone else to feel worthy, valuable or important is unhealthy and puts them in a position of being my hostage.
• Not getting hurt is like trying to stop the sun from shining. Impossible. It will happen. Believing it is bad to hurt is what’s painful to me. Being in pain helps us to evolve beyond what is superficial, beyond our own ego. Through my own pain, I grow. Through my daughter’s pain, she may grow too. Who am I to take that away from her?
This may be my daughter’s beginning – and it’s also mine! Wattle or not.
