You'll Make It (and They Will Too)

Prologue

In the Dark of Night

I was just lying there, body not moving but mind spinning out of control. It was the dark of night, and a million different scenarios presented themselves to my now-wide-awake brain, all of them ominous and highly unlikely. But at two o’clock in the morning, my mind was not reasonable.

I should have known. How had I missed it?

Last week, during a moment when all was (seemingly) calm for the first time in a while after a big batch of teenage trouble, my girl wanted to sleep at a friend’s house where she had slept a million times before, and we gave in. We were wary, but she had covered all her bases, promising to call to tell me who was there and then checking in again to tell us about the tents they set up, saying, “It’s so much fun, Mom! Thank you for letting me come.” We even got a goodnight call from the backyard, and naive me thought, Maybe things are going to be different. We have clearly turned a corner. Well done, us!

I actually slept well that night.

The next day I opened Facebook and did not see pictures of her in a backyard tent. No, instead, I was confronted with photo after photo of her dancing on cliffs at some park with her friends. She had been hours away from home, which I could see thanks to her friend’s post with pictures of the tomfoolery that outed the lies. A social media win! Let me tell you, rage doesn’t begin to describe what I felt scrolling through those images.

But beneath the rage is always the fear, right?

That rage led to a bunch of yelling when she got home, a giant grounding that would last months (she cared not . . . said she would “catch up on her art”), and more sleepless nights for me as I wondered how we had gotten here.

As I think about it, my friend, I have been up at two o’clock in the morning for roughly twenty-two years—the years of nursing babies or trying to make room for myself next to a squirmy toddler or wondering how I was going to do all that needed to be done for the school-age kids. And though we had now reached the years where those kids needed me less during the day, I was awake in the middle of the night more than ever.

Lying awake on any given night, I pictured every single horrible outcome that could happen to my kids: Lily is heading to the mall tomorrow with friends. I hate that they are going alone. Sam is heading to camp on his first weeklong excursion. What if he can’t sleep or they don’t supervise him swimming? Kate is about to get her driver’s license. What if she is the one to get in an accident on that horrible drive to school? Why do we even let these kids drive? It is madness. And where is Thomas really when his Life360 “accidentally” turns off ? And was I right to ground Ellie for two whole months? What on earth am I doing about that kid anyway?

The not knowing was the worst. There were so many ways the world could hurt them. And so many ways I could get it wrong. My brain raced to find ways to control all the outcomes even though I knew it was impossible.

My thoughts can get so dark in the middle of the night, imagining every disaster. The level of anxiety in my soul sends me walking from room to room to check on my kids. I just need to see them and maybe touch their legs or their foreheads. Each of my children would readily confirm that they have experienced at least one moment of terror opening their eyes to find me bending over them, looking at them, as I tried to find calm and reassure myself that they were okay, at least in that moment.

One night, I had just returned from my wandering and checking and lay staring at the ceiling, listening to my husband breathe through his CPAP machine and struggling not to be jealous of the way that man sleeps. I tried to calm my worried heart. Suddenly a memory came so clearly to my mind that I was transported back in time to when my now-tall kids were still so small.

I could see and smell and feel them—my five babies, all bathed and sweet-smelling and jammied up in little nightgowns and footed pj’s, as they ran around the family room, hid behind the curtains, and then threw themselves across the room, crawling all over me and one another. I sat on the couch exhausted in my soul, wishing for bedtime but also in awe that I got to parent these kids. When I couldn’t take it another minute, I gathered them in front of me for what our family called the popcorn game.

The popcorn game was one of our favorites. I had made it up one day in a desperate attempt to contain all my crazy offspring in one place. I would sit on the couch, and they would lie on the floor in front of me and pretend they were kernels of popcorn that I would pretend to pop on the stove.

As always, the oldest, Ellie, took control of the group. “Get into position, guys!”

They would all scramble to the floor, Lily helping Sam become a still, little popcorn seed, a position he could maintain for about thirty seconds before wiggling around. Soon all five were curled into little balls, waiting.

My job was to tell them when to pop.

I would pause for a moment to drink in the stillness before saying, “Oh man, I would love some popcorn. Look at these seeds here just lying in the pan. Here I go, turning on the heat. Oh, they are moving all over!”

The kids would start to roll around on the floor, giggling.

“It’s getting hotter. Any minute now they will start popping!”

The kid who couldn’t wait for another second would jump up and pretend to burst out of their shell.

“Oh my goodness, popcorn is flying everywhere!”

At this, all five kids would jump up and around, bumping into one another and yelling, “Pop! Pop! Pop!”

When the popping got almost out of control, I would say, “All done! I can’t wait to dig in!” And all the kids would fall to the floor, still as can be, ready for me to jump in among them and start tickling and pretending to eat them up.

It had provided endless hours of fun over the years and may also show that my kids had a low bar for what qualified as entertainment.

Those days were so sweet and now so very far away. We hadn’t played the popcorn game in years. Who knew if they even remembered it.

I had the realization that this game was a moment when I could control their every move. And now as they were becoming teenagers, I felt I had zero control over any of their movements, thoughts, or actions, and the odds of them all gathering at my feet because they just wanted to be near me were slim to none unless I was handing out cash or something.

As I looked back during the dark of night, I couldn’t help but long for the days when my worries were about smaller things. The little worries are still here, but now there are big worries too—the kind that make you lie awake and wonder where you have gone wrong. Worries like How do I let them leave and drive actual cars? and Why are they handing in zero homework? feel small when you look at bigger worries like What if I find alcohol or pot or condoms or a vape pen or something else shocking in their childhood bedroom where their stuffies still live?

If you are like me, your heart might break a little when these bigger worries actually come true. You might feel betrayed or terrified or let down. And you might feel like it is all your fault.

But it isn’t.

These kids are struggling. Our now-tall babies are trying to find their place. They might be slightly terrified or betrayed by their own bodies or minds, and they might even feel we have let them down. These kids might feel like every mistake is all their fault (even as they tell you everything is your fault, but don’t be fooled).

It isn’t.

It’s all part of the struggle. You and your kids have to walk some of this journey apart, but you are still in it together.