I can’t seem to
stop thinking in adjectives
and exclamation points. Absolutely wonderful! Glorious! Thrilling! Exciting! Amazing! Over the moon!
While it sounds like I’m describing the latest blockbuster film, I’m actually trying to put into words how I felt when my son was accepted to medical school last week.
I’m not quite prepared to say the news canceled out all the worrying and anxiety. I won’t leap off the “It can’t get better than this” bridge yet. But I am certainly standing near the railing, gazing happily down at the water. First I cried, then I laughed and then I threw in a little shouting from the rooftops to round it out.
I still feel like somebody slipped me some serious whoopee serum. And I have had way too much fun with it. Every mother knows that every mother deserves the feeling I got to savor this week.
It really, really helps blot out those memories of,
well, normal child-raising moments. We tend to work at forgetting those anyway, but times like this just give that selective memory a big booster shot.
Everyone has been so incredibly gracious, reacting as if a) this was as much my triumph as his and b) as if this news was as important to them as it was to me. I will be forever grateful for that.
One of my favorite responses was “Congratulations to the woman who is now practicing dropping the phrase ‘My son, the doctor … ’ into her conversation.”
Of course, I never doubted my child would get into medical school, but it was absolutely my job to worry … a lot. It is something so much more ambitious than anything that has ever strolled through my own goal-free brain. I suspect I feel rather like the mother of the first astronaut. You know your child is going to do something very challenging, and there is nothing in your past life you can even compare it to. It’s a foreign landscape for me. Not so foreign, however, that I can’t roll around in a big, sloppy puddle of shameless pride about it.
I’m a little afraid some of my readers may be a little weary of this theme. I may I have already written about my children’s accomplishments a time or two. Bad news. It is very likely to happen again. Good news. You have four years to prepare for it.
It does not take a child getting into medical school to make me proud of my babies. I have learned to celebrate the small joys when they come around, as well.
But this time … Whew! Dang! Wow! And did I mention, awesome?
Filed Under: Small Talk