Front Porch: Ready or not, parenting is an adventure

I close my eyes and instantly, I’m there – in the sterile hospital birthing room with its “homey” touches of rocking chairs and oak-trimmed wainscoting. The relentless beeping and buzzing of monitors and hovering of medical personnel, a constant reminder that I’m not alone in this very private moment.

I blink and he is here. My fourth son. Huge deep blue eyes gazing at me, mouth rooting for nourishment.

A breath or two and he’s gone. Taken from my arms and placed on a helicopter, fighting for his life. I watch them strap his robust 9-pound-10-ounce body to a stretcher – his cries of outrage silenced by intubation. Those eyes, locked on mine, shout “Mama! Help!”

But I am powerless. How can this be? A mother unable to help her child goes against every natural instinct, yet I have no choice but to relinquish my baby into the care of strangers.

Hours later we are reunited. I stand next to his Isolette willing him to live – to breathe – to survive the surgery that follows. What I really want is to do the day over – to go back to yesterday when he was still safe within my womb.

There aren’t any do-overs, and miraculously he defies the odds. He breathes on his own. He nurses. He thrives. Three weeks after he is born, we take him home.

Milestones, so easily taken for granted with his three older brothers become landmarks – celebrated with a euphoria known only to those who’ve learned the hard way that each breath is a milestone of its own.

So, he grows. He sits up. He eats solid food. His first word? “Mama!”

His first steps bring both laughter and tears because I know he’s always been going away. From the moment he left my body and fought so hard to live – he was leaving me. Leaving my arms and the safety net of love that cocooned and cushioned him. There is no way to keep him. No way to hold him. I know this. Haven’t I watched his brothers walk and run and fly?

But this separation is wrenching and hard fought for both of us. His asthma, his food allergies – these things keep me vigilant – on guard, ready to wage war against moms who say, “I don’t see how a peanut butter cookie is a big deal!”

Still, I let him go. What choice do I have? Kindergarten beckons, then grade school and suddenly he’s on the bus to middle school.

He thrives. He transitions from the small, safe world of private school to the big, wide world of public school, with nary a glitch. He outgrows his childhood asthma and he soars academically, challenged in ways that let his gifts shine. I don’t hover over him any more than I did his three older brothers. I sign field trip permission slips, receive of occasional cuddles and enjoy the daily debriefings at the family dinner table.

This is good. This is healthy. This is normal and all I’ve wanted for my last born.

But something happened this summer. I can no longer scoop him up into my arms for a hug. Instead, he bends down and pats me on the head and gives my shoulders a squeeze.

Last week he asked his dad to show him how to shave. Shave? How can my baby possibly need a razor?

Suddenly, it’s time for freshman orientation. I dutifully drop him off and don’t shed a tear. Practice has toughened me. I wait respectfully in the car to pick him up afterward, and yes, I make fun of the moms who have the embarrassing audacity to get out their vehicles and wave at their kids.

When he comes to the car I shower him with questions, wringing every ounce of nuance from his brief replies.

And so it happens. He gets up with his alarm, swings his backpack over his shoulder and saunters off to meet his bus. High school has arrived and taken my baby from me.

Gamely, I grin and make him pose for a blurry first-day-of-school photo. I kiss his cheek and shove him out the door. But everything in me cries “NO! Not yet! I’m not ready!”

I shouldn’t be surprised. No one asked me if I was ready when the pregnancy test turned up positive, after I’d told everyone three kids was plenty. No one asked me if I was ready when the first searing pains of labor split my body and announced there was no turning back.

Just once, I’d like to feel prepared. But parenthood is often like paddling a placid stream that suddenly tumbles into raging rapids. Even if you have a map and know exactly what’s around the bend, the jolt of the ride can take your breath away.

Scanning my mental map for this last son, I see homecoming dances, teenage romances, SAT tests, college applications and a navy blue graduation gown. While I may not feel ready for each new adventure, I know that he is.

And each milestone, like every breath, is worthy of celebration.