About Me: A MATTER OF MORELS

When I would explain to my 16 or 17 year old “children” something I thought they must do, or why I thought things “needed” to be done my way, my son would hear me out and then say, “Got it covered, Mom.” or “Don't worry, Mom, you raised me right, and now I get to decide this one.” or “Gotta trust your parenting, Mom.” When her turn came three years later, my daughter would say: “Mom, do I need to hear this?” or “I'm sorry you’re still having a problem on this, Mom, but I'm not worried about it, so you don't have to be either.” or “It’s just not my problem, Mom. Good luck working it out.”

I’d have been grounded for weeks had I addressed my parents in that manner! But my kids weren't being insolent. These things were said with quiet self-confidence and sincere, sometimes amused compassion and tolerance for the difficulty I was experiencing in letting go of my “parental entitlement” to meet their childhood “need for guidance." Wasn’t it my privilege and my responsibility to nurture them with advice? Mothering was a role I enjoyed and that I knew needed to be phased out at some point, but my kids were understandably more aware of the step by step process than I. They were usually gentle with me, but firm. We all knew I still had ultimate veto power but because they were responsible kids I seldom felt the need to use it.

One example of being sweetly set aside that I fondly recall was when I told my teenaged son and his friend that I’d seen some mushrooms that I thought were Morels poking up from the leaves in our shady side yard. We had all learned how to recognize some of the tastiest wild mushrooms during our several summers at a wilderness camp. The boys went right out and returned triumphant with a handful of Morels which they wanted to cook immediately. I began telling them how to clean the Morels without washing them and which pan to use - until I finally noticed that they were quirking their eyebrows at each other, rolling their eyes, and mugging suppressed chuckles.

“What’s with the eyes and eyebrows?” I asked.

“Mom, we’ve been cooking wild mushroom out on the trail when you were nowhere around to help us, but somehow we managed. Please - allow us to serve you.”  

With a laugh and an embarrassed wagging of head, I sat down and watched. Served with love and good humor, those Morels were especially delicious. Notch me one more lesson on letting-go.

A Matter of Morels by Abby Freeborn is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License. For permission to use contact randmxcentric@gmail.com