When Should a Mother Let Go?

When Should a Mother Let Go?

I sure don’t know. I have a sixty-year-old daughter, and I still keep poking my nose into her business where it doesn’t belong. And when she takes a rare and long-deserved night out, I can’t sleep until she returns home safely. I am finally getting better at keeping my mouth shut, and not making unasked for comments that bring me a roll of the eyes and an “Oh Mom!” Sometimes I make the comments to you fine folks instead.

I think the worst example of my over-bearing behavior to a grown child was once way back at least thirty years ago when my Number Two son and I drove to San Diego to visit Number One. I’m no longer sure I remember the details very well but it went something like this:

 Number One son was incarcerated at Balboa Navy Hospital. His illness is another story, but the trip to see him gave me a rare chance to catch up with what was happening in the life of Number Two.  He was in the second or third year at Cal State Northridge, and he was living  in a house he rented with a group of other students.

On the return trip we were talking away a mile a minute as we drove north on the 101 freeway through Van Nuys, when the car ran out of gas. It is the only time in my life that I have run out of gas when it has been my responsibility. Luckily it happened right before we got to Balboa Avenue, and I was able to coast down the ramp to a safe parking spot. There was a truck full of evening newspapers parked there, and a man was divvying up bundles for delivery by the paperboys. I asked the man where to find a gas station. He pointed in both directions, but said the one to the west was closer. Number Two said he would take care of it, and I sat and waited.

At last it seemed to me I was waiting too long, and I should do something. After all I’m the Mom! So I set off on foot to the east and finally came to a gas station where I bought a gallon of gas and a man drove me back to the car and poured it in. Apparently Number Two had not returned yet, and the newspaper people were gone. I sat and waited some more.

 Finally I decided to go looking for him. I drove four or five miles in both directions several times to no avail, before I gave up and drove on to his house near Northridge. When I knocked on the door, he answered it himself. I think he had a drink in his hand as he said cheerfully, “Hi Mom! Where have you been?” He should have been furious at me but he didn't let it show. I can’t remember what else he said, but his story was that when he returned with his gallon can of gas to find the car and me gone, he started walking home. He had gone a few miles when he met another guy trudging in the opposite direction with an empty gas can. They compared notes, traded gas cans, and went on their respective ways. The other guy had run out of gas to, so my son’s can of gas helped them both. My son no longer had to carry the heavy gas can.  I think he got a ride for part of his way home.

As I was sitting in my son’s living room with a drink in my hand listening to this tale, I realized again that I had to quit trying to always be the one in charge. I had to have faith in their choices and I let go so my children could be free to make their own decisions, right or wrong. Mothers may mean well, but they don’t always know best. At least I don’t, and that is for sure!