The mommy sandwich

I'm in a unique situation here as a mother. I'm stuck right now in the middle of two extremes: diapers and dating, crawling and college, tantrums and, well, bigger tantrums as I try to parent an infant and an emerging adult; stages in life I've decided to be very similar.

I must preface this mini-rant by saying that both these children are really good girls. Peyton, at eight months, is easy going and happy just about all the time. She's still a baby, however, so I spend huge chunks of my day (and night) tending to her every need. Sutton, the eighteen-year-old, has been very easy to raise. She makes good grades, is a hard worker, and, for the most part, makes wise decisions.

The issues I've come to abhor in my frustrating quest as "Everymom" really came to a head as my youngest arrived and demanded my constant parenting while my oldest determined simultaneously that she was too old to be parented. It was as if oldest one decided that "Oh good! Mom has a new baby and will be so busy and so distracted that she won't have the time or the inclination to worry about where I'm going or what I'm doing, so I'll just make these decisions, go these places, and do these things because I think it's okay."

Imagine her surprise (and disappointment) the past nine months as not only have I continued to stay atop of her comings and goings, doings and not doings, but I've become even more diligent regarding her life, her choices, and made it my goal to squeeze in a few more mom-sermons and life-lessons in the dwindling months we have remaining under the same roof. That too-long sentence is indicative of how I've spent our time together recently, with me being too afraid to take a breathe during this life crash course and pause for fear that I'll neglect to tell her something so important that my exclusion of it will negatively affect the rest of her life. Oh, the pressure!

Then there are those hormones; hers not mine, thankyouverymuch. PMS grabs a hold of her and squeezes and contorts her until she is almost unrecognizable. Fortunately, we are a family of late-bloomers so I've only dealt with this aggravation a few years, but boy can she be mean as a snake. We walk big circles around her. Reagan and Keaton come to me with requests for rides or homework help or big-sister assistance because they are just too afraid of the wrath they'll endure from the Great Grump.

I keep reminding myself that this is all normal, yet another age and stage I must stumble bleary-eyed through as I try and create a good, honest, loving, and hard-working person I can send proudly into the world. She's going to be okay. She has a strong faith, a staunch work ethic, and a family that loves her very much. What more can I do?

I look at the youngest and wonder if I'll be this diligent and worried in 18 years when she's nearing graduation? I expect that I will be, maybe more so as I reflect on the mistakes I made with her siblings.

I'm sandwiched now between the grabbing on and the letting go. I struggle with the push-pull of mothering that breaks your heart. This is hard. This is invigorating. This is my life and for now, even with all this drama, the frustration and the tears, I'm proud and so very thankful.