Just when does it get easier, letting your children go?
My son has gone to Beaver camp and the time is going so slow.
I walked past his empty room last night and my heart gave a little jolt,
Then I lay awake and worried that if he’s cold it will be all my fault.
I started wondering if I’d packed the right stuff and will he get any sleep?
And thinking that when I see him later will it embarrass him if I weep?
I’ll have to give myself a good talking to, when to secondary school he goes,
And not lie in wait around corners to sort out any bullies or foes.
What will I do when he turns seventeen and wants to learn how to drive?
I’ll have to resist the urge to follow him or race ahead to watch him arrive.
I MUST NOT lie on the back seat of his car, using a blanket as my cover,
If he’s getting ‘friendly’ with a girl she may not take kindly to discovering his mother.
And what about when he wants to go out with the lads at weekends on the lash?
I’ll be watching from one end of the bar, disguised in glasses and fake moustache.
I dread the time that is bound to come, when some girl breaks his heart.
I’ll want to stun her with a Taser gun or take her out with a poisoned dart.
I’m never going to come to terms with him jetting off to some exotic place.
I’ll be nagging about the importance of sun cream and hiding out in his suitcase.
He’ll be about to get down and dirty with a buxom holiday rep by the name of ‘Bex’
And I’ll pop up with a condom at the end of his bed and remind him of our talks of safe sex.
Heaven help him when he meets ‘The One’ and introduces her to Mum and Dad;
I’ll try not to tie her to a chair and ask her how many sexual partners she’s had.
Or discover if she has a criminal past by shining a torch in her pretty eyes,
I’ll be discreet about my background check and the detector to reveal any lies.
I know that it’s my son’s life and he must lead it any way he chooses,
That my job is to support him and soothe literal and emotional bruises.
I want what any parent wants, for my children to be happy and content,
To be a shoulder for them to cry on, an outlet for their anger to vent.
The rational part of my brain tells me such and I know that it speaks sense,
It’s just that my heart that loves him so damn much leaps automatically to his defence.
I can’t help wanting to fight his battles and stop him from getting sad or hurt,
Each day it becomes more complex than picking him up and brushing off the dirt.
But I’ll vow to try my hardest, to be reasonable and keep myself in check,
To smile, put on my make-up and pretend that I’m not an emotional wreck.
Being a parent is the hardest thing of all to do and to our limits we all get tested.
So I’m going to measure my own success if they reach adulthood and I’ve not been arrested