Tension. Anxiety. Worry. My own load is invisible, but it’s definitely been taking a toll. This week I learned that while I’ve been stretching my spine in downward dog, practicing deep breathing in meditation, walking the back roads of New Hampshire with a grateful heart, I’ve also been clenching my jaw. Clenching so hard and so fiercely and for so long, that I’ve cracked my back teeth and pushed my bite out of alignment as a result.
It took my dad the dentist to figure it out, after I’d called him for the fifth morning in a row to describe my sleepless nights and to confess that I’d begun counting the hours between painkillers. “Put two rolls of cotton between your teeth so they don’t touch, then sit down and completely relax for a half hour, and call me back,” he advised. Still the good daughter, I did what he told me, weird as it sounded. Within moments, I caught myself clamping down on the cotton rolls — clamping down as if they were a couple of bullets I’d been told to bite while undergoing primitive, excruciating surgery without anesthesia. Except of course, this was not surgery. This was my own everyday life. And apparently, in order to survive it, I’d been holding myself in some kind of death-grip.
The truth was a bit of a shock. I took a deep breath, made myself relax, and then caught myself clamping right down again. For thirty conscious minutes, then, I focused on relaxing my jaw completely. Deliberate, intentional relaxation. And bit by bit, I felt the pain that had plagued me for a week simply drain away. Could it really be that simple?
This morning, I watched as my son Jack got ready to head up into the White Mountains for a three-day hike with a friend. It’s his first big adventure without an adult along, a true test — for us parents as well as for him. When he proposed the trip at the beginning of the summer, his dad and I were noncommittal–not wanting to nix the idea, yet not at all sure he was ready to take off on his own into the mountains. Back then, August seemed like a long way off. If we said nothing more about his plan, we figured, he might very well forget the whole idea, or never manage to get it organized, or change his mind.
Instead, over the course of many phone calls, he and his friend chose a date, got some advice about a route, and finally, with our blessing and my credit card, reserved a couple of AMC huts. The funny thing is that by the time he was actually ready to go, I was ready to let him.
A year ago, this boy of mine was driving me crazy. I despaired of him ever growing up, wising up, straightening up. . .cleaning up. All of a sudden, though, he IS grown up. At six feet tall and 160 pounds, he is a lot bigger and stronger than I am. And finally, it seems that his brain has caught up to his body. I send him to the grocery store with a list, and he comes back having made exactly the right purchases. (It was not so long ago that I requested a cucumber and he returned with a zucchini.) He calls home, meets his curfew, texts me when something goes awry and sometimes just to say “hi.” He asks me how my day was, puts his dishes in the dishwasher and walks the dog. He gets up on time and goes to bed at a reasonable hour. He reads good books and then wants to talk about them. He still trashes his bedroom, and then just before I open my mouth to say something about how it looks like a bomb hit in there, he turns on some loud music and starts cleaning it up.
Last week, the two of us had an interesting conversation. “With you, Mom,” he said, “it’s all about honesty. I know that honesty means more to you than anything. And so now I feel like I can’t ever lie to you. Even sometimes when I’ve done something that I don’t want you to know about, I always feel better after I’ve told you.”
I thought about that for a few days, somewhat reassured in general sort of way. And then something came up that kept me awake for a good part of a night, worrying not so much about what I already knew, but about what might be. In the morning, Jack and I talked again. “Ok,” I said, “I think I really need to know a little more about what happened last night.” The story he told me made perfect sense. I knew that it was the truth. It didn’t thrill me, but it was so, so much better than all of the really terrible scenarios I’d spent the night imagining. Now it was my turn to tell him something.
“I can always handle the truth,” I said. “I may not like it, but if I ask for it, it’s my job to figure out how to deal with it. And I think the truth is probably always going to be a lot better than whatever I can dream up in my mind.”
It’s late now, and Steve and Henry have already gone to bed. I was just about to wrap this up and turn off the lights, when a text came in from Jack, who is settling into his sleeping bag on the top of a mountain far away. “Hey mom,” he wrote, “random service spot here. Everything is going fine.”
I’ve been thinking a lot today about the things we carry, both literally and emotionally. I watched the seventeen-year-old boys pack their packs, watched them trying to anticipate what they would need, what was worth lugging up into the mountains and back down again. Their enthusiasm was great to see, though I was less impressed by the rations they were taking — Slim Jims, Ritz crackers, Pop-Tarts, and a sausage. They insisted on carrying their own pillows from home. And I resisted the urge to check to make sure they had toothbrushes and clean underwear. (I did insist on hats and four apples.) And then it was time for them to shoulder their loads and be on their way. They probably took too much stuff; their packs looked pretty heavy to me. But what they have is what they chose to carry.
Me, I’m ready for a lighter load. I’ve laid down my burden of worry, at least for now. The mouth guard my dad made me will help me to remember to relax my jaw, to give my poor teeth some rest. And meanwhile, a more conscious part of me has already chosen to let go. I’m sure that Jack is fine out there. He’ll have a good night’s sleep and so will I.
Katrina, we just returned home after picking up all three of our boys from 12 days at a theatre camp. It was our youngest son's first time at "sleep-away" camp and he had told us when we dropped him off that he was sure it was going to be the worst 12 days of his life. On the inside I wondered if we were pushing him before he was ready, on the outside I said, "Keep a journal and then you can write about it when it's over!" Tonight when I tucked him in, exhausted and covered in "camp dirt" I smiled recalling his good bye hugs to his new camp friends and counselors and his welcoming words to us, "It was awesome! I can't wait to come back next year!" Maybe it was my imagination but he sure looked like he had grown a bit and like he was carrying himself with a bit more confidence than when he left last week.
Then, I happened to decide to check facebook quickly before turning in to make a comment about how nice it feels to have a full house again…and I saw your blog post and read it. Sure is wild to see how they grow and go off into the world to have their own adventures. Hope you sleep well tonight. I am pretty sure I will.
Your words always ring so true. Thank you for this reminder.
Hi, I started to read the post, then went and put the cottonballs under my teeth while reading the rest.
i'm in the same boat in many ways, even without kids. As always, i related and can hear your voice so clearly.
It is amazing how stress manifests itself. For me, it's always in my shoulders (not helped along by flute and piano playing, I might add.) I know that for people who hold it in the jaw, it can lead to TMJ problems — but if you actually managed to crack a tooth rather than having it radiate into your jaw in the more usual way, Katrina, all I can say is "That is SOME stress!"
I admire the coping abilities of parents on a daily basis — yours, certainly not least among them!!! Glad you're on the mend, Jack got to the mountains, and there were good lessons all 'round.
Oh … Again I feel an intense kinship. About six years ago I had to have a gum graft (& soon time for another) because of my crazy tooth grinding (which I'm totally unaware of). Ahhhh. Have also thought much about what we each with us – love your reflections, which are (of course) so familiar.
I'm going to have to carry you all the way back to California, and I will.
I have two chapters left to read in your Gift of an Ordinary Day, and I'm savoring it. I love knowing that you post here, as your posts are like an extension of your lovely book! Will be in Boston on the 18th and can't wait for the Mother's Plunge.
And this post… oh my. It is amazing what we do unintentionally. But bring a bit more intention to every moment, and presto, a little bit of peace. (easier said than done… 😉 )
Bravo.
Authenticity and a mouth guard—pretty much the way I try to roll as well. Namaste
With my baby's due date just around the corner, I'm convinced that the tension and worry I feel about her not yet being born is contributing to her not yet being born. It's a terrible chicken-egg situation. I know as soon as I can genuinely relax and LET GO that she'll arrive. Sorta like your poor teeth 🙁
I was drawn to the picture before I barely had the page open. What a portrait to cherish in the days to come. I got misty eyed, reading about your conversations with your teen. I cherish those kind of exchanges I catch every now and then. With three teens in our house I seem to waffle between someone sharing with me and someone snapping at me, usually within the course of an hour.
Just yesterday I found myself 'listening weary' after spending a day with my very chatty fourteen year old. I know I should be thankful for his unguarded sharing, because he follows two siblings who are not always so open. But some days it can be tiring and I have to give myself the 'be thankful' pep talk. It makes me think about how toddlers and teens can both be so hard, in such different ways.
I am glad you are figuring out your teeth problem. My daughter wears a custom made night guard that has worked miracles on her TMJ. It is nice to have my girl headache free again. So much of life can be trapped in our jaw. So much to let go to keep things in balance.
Always love your posts.
judy
justonefoot.blogspot.com
Oh my goodness! That's a lot of grinding.
My boys, like yours, are remarkably different from one another. My oldest is steady. He's focused. He wants approval and good grades and the like. He has plans. He's ALWAYS been this way. My middle son… oh he's another story. He's bright and funny and irreverent. He doesn't care about what people think — people includes teachers, peers and often parents. He argues and talks back (the oldest would never have dared at his age LOL) …. it's been a journey already, learning to parent all over again for this very different personality.I imagine it will continue to be! ( And the third one is something altogether different than the other two — but he's still figuring it out.) If my oldest was planning an outdoor adventure with his friends, it would be thorough and well planned. He'd pack sunscreen and healthy food without prompting. He'd check in at the ranger station to register the planned route. And I would worry but probably not too much. Although the middle one is only nine, I can't even let that kid walk home from school – lord only knows what mischief he'll find along the way through our boring suburban neighborhood! (I've tried letting him walk and he keeps doing things that get that privilege taken away) Any time I have a typical teenage struggle with the oldest, I think how much worse it's going to be with my rascal.
I'm glad you're breaking the ground so I can watch.
My dentist diagnosed me with the same thing last month! So funny. But the guard makes me snore (or so my husband says….) So I don't know what is worse?
I have a Jr in College / son and started reading you blogs when he was in high school. You are so on and help me to remember the good when I'm going through the bad. I also have a 16 year old daughter. You need a girl. You would have sooooo much more material to write about!
I am here via A Design So Vast.
I have to go… to work … but I will be back. I have a 15 year old boy – whom I love to the moon and back but holy moly it has been a interesting year… I take great heart in these words…. I am going to find your books and order them….
Thank you for your words! Your blog really hit home and brought tears to my eyes.