Raising small children has its share of exhaustion. Frustration. Paint peeling irritation. But then again you can respond. Change tacks. Hire a babysitter. Shake it up.

 

There is a peculiar kind of vulnerability after they grow up. You no longer cook their lunches, or sign consent forms. They pay their own phone bill, and decide where to go on Saturday night. But they remember. And have a trunk load of assessments about what went down when they were little and we were big. 

 

No one warned me about this, in the shelves of parenting books I consumed in the pursuit of Good Parenting. Having adult kids who are dissatisfied with their childhood feels like the roof has blown off. It is too late to change, and there are no neutral witnesses. Just our skewed memories. 

 

A friend and I went out for lunch, and she opened the lint trap on her mothering. Two of her adult children had decided it was time to weigh in on their childhoods, and did not hold back. I held her heart while she cried quietly, and resisted the urge to debate back with proof that she had indeed done well by her family. I could remember the Christmas bashes, and trips to the beach. I had been there at cook outs and more than a few parties.

 

In the next few days while I held her in compassion, a new notion poked up like a brave green daffodil trying to bloom between snowstorms. Being a mother is not a contest, to score points and win a trophy at the end. Mothering brings its own joy. Mixed in with the angst and poopy diapers are the moments of snuggling on the couch, and kissing pink cheeks while they sleep. 

 

In that realization the whipping winds of regret died down. The warm parts of our past were safely under the roof of my mind.