Now I can begin to relax, at least a little. My two sons have survived just over twenty years and are now young men. I am relieved that they are now launched into young adulthood, alive and without serious scars.
For me, there is no more anxious driving on winter roads, constantly attentive to that tiny, precious cargo in the back seat, going home from his hospital of origin. There is no more standing next to his bed, listening to his rhythmic breathing, assuring myself that he is still alive. I’ve not yet done anything tragic. He survives.
I no longer stare at the young students getting off the school bus, looking for that familiar face and coat that assures me that he has made it through another perilous day at school on his own. I am almost ready to admit that my vigilance has prevented his drowning in the lake at my cabin. Childhood, lake and cabin are finally proven compatible.
I may be ready to give up lying slightly asleep in bed, half-listening for the assuring slam of the back door that announces that my son has survived another late-night trip home on the bus.
Parenthood is a perilous time for vulnerable offspring, and it is such a relief that success is in sight. There were no multiple eggs in a nest, most of whom were destined to be food for others. There was just a solitary tiny baby boy, one at a time. Each needed constant attention, routine feeding, and vigilant protection. The attention, feeding and protection has gone on for many years, even though the level of vigilance has gradually diminished.
It is a relief that, though the fledglings may return to the nest, they have proven that they can survive on their own without a vigilant parent. Whew!