Yesterday, on the eve of my only child’s ninth birthday, I learned my son no longer needs me. More specifically, I realized he no longer needs my help building his LEGO sets, which of course means he’s now ready to start a new life all on his own. A life without me in it. A life living by his own rules. A life where he never calls or texts his dear, old mother. A life where he forgets I ever existed. (This, I’m quite sure, is the least dramatic thing I have ever written.)
Since he was around 2, my son, Van, and I have spent all of my money and most of our weekends building new LEGO sets. It started as a way to pass the time when my husband still delivered the mail on Saturdays but eventually became a weekly routine wherein I would build the sets, Van would build something else, I would complain about him taking the pieces I needed, he would begrudgingly give them back, and I would inevitably insist LEGO stiffed us bricks only to find them beneath my chair or under the folds of one of our sleeping cats.
As the years passed, the LEGO sets became more remarkable as did Van’s ability to read the instructions and assemble the builds. What began with me building and him playing quickly turned into me handing him pieces to build and me firmly believing I’m no longer a useful or necessary part of his life.
After opening our second bag of bricks during yesterday’s build, for the first time, I noticed how desperate I was to insert myself into a task my child has become wildly adept at completing all on his own. I so badly wanted to be useful: I organized the remaining pieces by color and spread them out on our red table cloth for his approval; I looked ahead in the book to readily supply him with what he needed next; and I think I even said at one point, “I’m doing good, right?”
With Van’s eighth year on this planet coming to a close I now understand our “lasts” as mothers can be very hard. While I remember the last time I carried Van to bed (and nearly put my back out in the process), I cannot remember the last time I washed his hair or the last time I gave him a bottle or the last time he crawled into bed with us in the middle of the night. I don’t remember the last time I sang him a bedtime lullaby (or in our home a Motown classic) or when I flew that last airplane of food into his mouth. He no longer needs me for these things just like he no longer needs me for his LEGO builds, which, while sad, is also a testament to all he’s learned from us, as his parents, and me, as his mother.
Because what I also realized while wallowing in my own theatrics is that, brick by brick, my baby is constructing the life ahead of him, yes, without me, but with me, too. After all, I taught him his love of LEGOs; about how to build something out of nothing. I taught him how to wash his own hair, how to fall back to sleep, and, of course, how to fly food into his own mouth, which I sincerely hope he demonstrates to someone special someday.
I’m also teaching him things that are built to last; things I hope to never see the last of. Things like how to be kind; how to give; how to be a good friend; how to treat nurses, teachers, and waitstaff; how to be empathetic; how to heal; how to grow; and, most importantly, how to love. And, if you’re a mother saddened by your own set of “lasts,” remember, you’re teaching your babies these things, too.
Toward the end of yesterday’s build Van looked at me and said, “Are you crying?” to which I responded, “Just a little.” He then asked me why and I told him that it was because LEGO has always been our “thing” and now our thing is really just his thing and I’m no longer needed. Van gently patted my hand and said of course he would still need me to build with him (something I must have taught him too). And even though he may have only said it because he knows he needs me to continue to foot the LEGO bill, the sentiment still helped. He then caught me taking pictures and said, “Now don’t go sharing these pictures with all your friends, telling them I don’t need you anymore because I do.” I assured him that was exactly what I was going to do and that it wouldn’t be the last time either.
“There are times when I can help you out, and times when you must fall. There are times when you must live in doubt, and I can't help at all.” - Built to Last, The Grateful Dead (Robert Hunter, lyrics)
Title Track: “Built to Last,” The Grateful Dead. Listen here.
