A Mother's Lament

A fleeting joy like no other.

Being the parent of another adult sucks. You have none of the power over his or her life decisions that you think you have earned, and in fact you may rank lower than your kid's newest friend in that department. What's worse, it all brings back memories of how badly you treated your own parents, who are likely now deceased, when you were that age.

I struggle with these feelings daily, often thinking they are mine alone. But then today I read an article in the Wall Street Journal about how so many boomer parents (that's most of us) face this predicament today. Hearing how other people's lives are just as bad or worse than mine never makes me feel better. It just adds on another layer of heartache, compounding the problem.

My only child is now a 31-year-old man and I still miss the little boy he once was. I cry about him often, as if he had been abducted when he was six or seven -- or more accurately, 14. My husband says, "That's the reason God made grandchildren," although I'm pretty sure that God made grandchildren in order to carry on the human race. Besides, the only grandchild I want would have to look and act just like my son once did, and that's not possible.

And so I lament.