Days later, driving my vehicle, I realized I was clutching the steering wheel with white-knuckled hands. Tight as tree bark, I mused and took a moment at a stoplight to drop my shoulders and flex my fingers. I regripped, softly, as the light changed. My whole body relaxed. I loosened my grip and felt the release of letting go.
On a recent Friday morning, I saw a young mother with two small boys in a coffee shop. The boys looked about 2 and 4, and the mom, tired. The towheaded duo munched on donuts, strewing crumbs down their already messy shirts and the floor, drippy juice boxes clutched in dirty hands. I remarked that my boys – no longer little – and I used to do ‘Donut Fridays’ almost every week. She laughed and admitted it was a reward for her as much as for them.
They finished their treats and maneuvered their wagon out the door. One child jumped in to ride, while the other walked beside his mother on the sidewalk, one tiny hand clutching his mother’s, ever so tightly, as if he’d never let go.
This summer, my kids are teening and tweening, and I’m learning to ease my hold on them, too. They are city boys, biking to the park for soccer or whiffleball, or shopping with friends at Ross or Target, off to the gym and Chipotle. They have lives beyond carefully curated camps and adventures I used to plan. It’s hard to resist the urge to micro-manage their days, and to be honest, sometimes they do things I’d prefer they didn’t do. But they make their own mistakes and figure it out. I stay hands off as much as I am able, or at least, I keep my parental grasp relaxed.
But I do love it when my baby birds come back home to nest, returning with stories of friends and fun and food. Sometimes when we are walking, they still hold my hand. I revel in the joy of being close to them for as long as they will allow it. Holding on, not too tightly, just a little while longer.