Letting Go.

I thought it’d be easier this time. The third time’s a charm, right? Parenting gets easier with each child, right? Smarter and more competent parenting, quicker and more relaxed; we see the bigger picture and chill on the not-so-important things, right?

Until the homeroom teacher sends out the email, the weekend before school starts, welcoming him to her class, his first homeroom in Middle School, a new school, a bigger school. What if he doesn’t know anyone? What if he’s with that bully again? What if the Middle School’s influence will be greater than ours? What if he’s not confident enough, sure enough, prepared enough? She doesn’t know him as I do. He’s not like his sisters. Maybe I should get involved. Maybe I should call the school. Maybe I should email the teacher.

We started working on revamping his bedroom for Middle School months ago. His Dad built him a gorgeous new bed and desk and shelves. We painted and decorated, cleaned and loaded up the vehicle with some of the childhood he’d outgrown and it was ok, it was good, and we were excited. We were celebrating every step of this new phase. But today I sat on his carefully made bed, his room tidy as he played outside with the neighbourhood kids and I realized I’m letting go again.

“God this is so hard.” My prayer is a near physical groaning.

The negative “what if’s” of Middle School and adolescence are loudly begging for my attention. My parenting insecurities are on high alert. The positive “what if’s” of this new adventure are deliberately positioned to leave my mouth but my eyes betray my heart.

Tonight his bedroom is complete, and his backpack and lunch are ready. But I’m not quite ready yet.

“God I love him so much.”
God whispers to my heart, “You do. I love him more.”
“God, what if they hurt him, break him, make him bleed?”
“I’ll be with him.”
“God, what if he gets lost along the way?”
“My plans are greater than your plans; my plans are greater than his plans.”
“God, I’m struggling to let him go.”
“He was never yours in the first place, but an entrusted gift for a time. Do you trust me?”

And I do. It breaks my heart wide open and it slips down my cheeks this kind of letting-go-love, but I do trust the God Almighty, his creator, my creator, the dream giver, promise keeper, and provider.

I can’t help but notice my little man is not quite so little as he comes to say goodnight. He bends down low to hug me in the living room chair and I take a deep breath and savour him for an extra second.

“Promise me something?” I say in a low voice for just him to hear. “The world needs you just as you are; show up your whole self, your whole perfectly imperfect beautiful self.”

He stands up straight and dazzles me with his boyish grin, a twinkle in his eye that says I’ve embarrassed him and he loves it, and I watch him walk off to bed. He turns at his door and waves goodnight to his childhood.