Now, poor Ned had recently accompanied me through a
gruelling 27 hour labour, during which he found himself on the receiving end of
some rather cruel and threatening outbursts from me. So he was understandably tentative as he sat
on the edge of the bed to ascertain the cause of my anguish, lest it be revealed that this
current problem, like the exhausting labour, was also his fault.
“One day . . .”, I began, gasping between heaving sobs. Ned looked
distraught. “What is it??? One day, what?”, he coaxed, possibly recalling the
various accusations and warnings I had levelled at him during the delivery of his heir.
“One day, these cheeks...”, I gulped. My hand rested gently on our son’s perfect
skin, and my chest heaved. “One day these magnificent soft cheeks will be
ruined by stubble; he’ll be SHAVING, and what’s more, HE WON’T NEED ME
ANYMORE!!!” I wailed pathetically, unable to articulate any further details of my distress.
Fast forward thirteen years.
Grote Jongen’s gorgeous, smooth soft cheeks remain for the time being,
unblemished by stubble or any other hormonal affliction. However, it is becoming clear that his
constant need for his mother is definitely on the wane. ("I told you so", I'm tempted to hiss at Ned). Of course, this separation, this not-always-gentle pushing away is as
it should be. The invisible elastic that binds a mother to her child must stretch, if it is to do its job.
The mix of pain and pride that comes with this
realisation is discomfiting, and definitely requiring some adjustment on my part. After
all, I have sat by this boy's side through two general anaesthetics, one ambulance
ride, three trips to Emergency, two broken arms, 37 stitches, five dental
fillings, and 641 bandaid removals (each one more traumatic than any bone
fracture), all in some 4,745 days of life.
Surely, I need to at least remain on stand-by?
Furthermore, in addition to the mandatory provision of early
lessons in reading, writing, colour identification, shoelace tying and toileting,
I like to think I have also contributed to his ability to argue a point, cook
pasta, get lost in a good book, stay calm in a crisis, choose the best nectarine,
stand his ground, be discerning in his chocolate selection and other essential
life skills. Can he really be preparing to take it from here on his own??? I swallow, disbelieving.
Ned and I decided we wanted to meaningfully acknowledge Grote Jongen’s
upcoming entry to adolescence. Becoming a teenager is surely one of life’s significant gateways, and we wanted to
assure him that his parents were (despite appearances) coming around to the
idea that he could indeed soon “take it from here”. The sudden awareness that we had brought him
to the other side of the world, reducing his access to trusted and familiar external
male role models at a time of his life when they are most needed, loomed large
before us.
Having long been fans of the it-takes-a-village approach to communal child-raising, we decided
to deal with our latest parenting challenge by pounding the village drum. We e-drummed a request to a number of significant
men in our lives; good and wise men of all ages whom we hoped Grote Jongen
might turn to as he inevitably (at least for a few years) grows away from his
own parents. Our brief was vague – essentially
it was to send him something for his thirteenth birthday that might help him on
his journey through the wilds of adolescence and beyond. A quote, a photo, a letter, a talisman . . . free choice. Ideally, we hoped the
contributions might also help forge a lasting bond between Grote Jongen and the
said Wise Men, despite the inter-continental drift we had imposed.
They did not disappoint. On the day of Grote Jongen’s
thirteenth birthday, we were able to present him with a box of mysterious
envelopes and packages; the consolidated wisdom of men who our whole family is
incredibly fortunate to have in our lives. Ned and I were not granted access to
the words contained in the offerings – that will remain between the Wise Men
and Grote Jongen, which is a shame really, as I’m quite sure there’s a book in
it. That secrecy is part of the “let him
go, he’s learning to live on his own” training to be endured by us as parents.
It’s both beautiful and dreadful, excruciating and exhilarating to experience.
Yet, even
without knowing the details of the dispatched wisdom, we have watched in wonder
throughout the last week as our fledgling sat and pored through his box of
treasures. He smiled, his brow furrowed, he laughed, his lips twitched, he
sighed, and at times he looked quite overcome. He deigned to show us various
books he’d received, ranging from “Oh the
Places You’ll Go” by Dr Seuss to “Nineteen
Eighty Four” by George Orwell. He looked positively smug as he showed us a
stuffed Gruffalo that one of my favourite Wise Men had dispatched, and then left
us completely in the dark as to its significance. That particular Wise Man has
even written directly to me to blatantly and insensitively taunt me about my innate
control freak tendencies and to speculate on how I must be coping with my son’
secrets. Not at all well, although I'll never admit that...
Ned and I are overwhelmed by the generous response, and so
grateful that we overcame our initial hesitation to request it. I don’t think I’m
imagining things when I say that I can detect a very subtle change in Grote
Jongen since the Wise Men answered our drum.
He’s more mellow, less angry. Perhaps even a little meditative. There's a new tolerance of parental presence in his vicinity, I hopefully think. I swear I can detect a slightly more confident bearing. He seems
taller somehow. There might even be the slightest swagger developing...
Why might that be? I can only conclude that just because we
don’t require our junior warriors to prove their emerging maturity by enduring
weeks of self-sufficiency in the wilderness (perhaps without social networking
tools), or by slaughtering a wild beast (albeit without a fully-charged game
controller), or climbing to the top of a mountain (carrying fifty kilograms of mobile
phones) doesn’t mean that they don’t need the acknowledgement of the wise men
in their village. They do; they need to
feel part of a safe and varied circle of men. And their mothers need to have
confidence that the circle is wise and good and compassionate and reliable and trustworthy.
The newborn that slept so peacefully on that London bed in
1999 while his weeping mother drowned in hormones, knows absolutely now that he
is part of a safe circle of men. His mother knows it too, and is feeling much
better about what she has to do next.
But she still doesn’t want him to shave.
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