I talked to Rob about what was about to happen. He is excited. His daughter is moving on. He mentions Sandy, his wife, is having a hard time with the impending transition.
Over half a dozen kids we know are moving to different cities this week. They are headed off to college. Some parents we know are beside themselves with anxiety and grief. Others are overjoyed.
Jen listed their names. We’ve known these kids for years. We’ve watched as they showed the slipperiness of time. The way only kids can tell time’s story. You see a kid every few weeks, months or years. Predictable platitudes thrown from our tongues: “They grow up so fast.” “Savor every moment. They are fleeting.” “Before you know they’ll be grown.”
We hear but do not listen. The days are long. The years are short. Changes are infinitesimally small and incremental. There are barely perceptible leaps that occur where you sense that from one day to another, this isn’t the same kid as yesterday. I’ve noticed this if I spend as a little as two nights away from my girls. It wakes me from my slumber to realize time is passing.
They grow. Then they go.
We are shipbuilders. Our kids are the ships we build. Every story read and bedtime snuggle, karate class, traveling volleyball tournament, word of encouragement, each late night figuring out homework (Damn you, new math!), punishment and grounding, birthday party, tutoring session, and difficult discussions about life is part of the construction. These are what we build with.
We pour ourselves into building the best ship we possibly can. A strong and resilient one which can withstand storms and crashing waves. One that’s hydrodynamic and capable of cutting forward through the sea. A ship that can complete its journey to find a life of its own.
Some of us start building before our babies are born. We open savings accounts, sign up for pre-school waiting lists, play Mozart to protruding pregnant bellies.
When they’re born, we work hard, long and late. Some of us to ensure we have the resources to build the ship. Others are working on the ship itself. Then the day comes. The ship is as complete as we can make it.
It is time for the ship to cast off. That’s why we did this. We said hello to a 5 to 10 lb infant so we can say goodbye to an 18-year-old young adult.
We might want to keep them at home, keep them from harm, keep them for our joy. The ship is not built to be a collectors’ item in a museum. It’s built to sail, to face and overcome the elements, to seek beyond the horizon, to discover the unknown.
I know many who are torn, tired and teary about seeing their baby boy or baby girl move away. You did your best. You built your ship. It’s time to push your work out into the vast sea that is life.
I’m 12 years away from seeing my ships drift off into the distance. I don’t know what it’s like to push the ship from shore. I hope and pray for you shipbuilders to find joy in seeing your ship set sail for the destiny that is their life on their own.
A ship in port is safe, but that’s not what ships are built for. -Grace Hopper or John Shedd
