How to Climb a Mountain
Photo Courtesy | Jill Yancey
BY JILL YANCEY
Last week, my husband and I slogged through our morning routine. We talked about our son, brainstormed solutions to his problems, and we cried.
“I don’t know how to do this,” I said.
My husband agreed, “I don’t either.”
That is the hard reality of parenting; we are the adults and there are no backups. Every first for our oldest is a first-time-parenting moment for us, and I gotta say, it’s terrifying. I’ve been a mom for eleven years now. I have two boys, identical twin girls, and still I have no idea what I’m doing. That is the truth. I’m a good mom, maybe even a wise mom — at times, but I have no idea how to help my child through the hardest time of his life.
At the end of last year, my husband and I packed up our four kids and the dog, and we moved 2,598 miles away from home to the other side of the country. Not only did we move away from everyone and everything our children have ever loved, but we also moved them from the north to the south, the suburbs to the country, PST to EST, high-desert to sub-tropical climate. We may as well have moved to another planet. When people ask me why we made this wildly big change, it would be easier on my guilty conscience if I could say, “We had to. We had no choice. We followed the job,” but that would be a lie. We moved because we wanted an adventure. That’s it. We wanted to try something exciting, buy land, meet new people, and explore another side of the country. Our kids were actually on board with the whole thing but I’ve realized that’s probably because of all the promises I made.
“This will be incredible! You are gonna make even more friends than you have now! This will be a dream come true!”
It turns out those were promises I couldn’t keep, at least not for everyone. Most of my children have made new friends, and some would say they love it here even more than back home, but not all. How’s that saying go? “A mother is only as happy as her saddest child?” Well these days I have one very sad child. A few nights ago my husband and I sat with our son on his bedroom floor and reassured him everything would be okay, but whenever we locked eyes over the top of his head, we were asking each other for reassurance, But, will it?
I don’t know how to do this.
When I was fourteen-years-old, my family moved from the North to the South so that my dad could try a new and exciting job opportunity — I was thrilled. However, my first day of school did not go as well as I had hoped. I was wearing all the wrong clothes and I didn’t make even one friend. When my dad — my very frugal, very busy dad — got home from work that day to find me in tears, he took me to three different stores to buy me what became my first pair of Doc Marten shoes. To this day, at one hundred-and nineteen dollars, they are the most expensive shoes I’ve ever owned. Now, when one of my children are having an awful a day, I say,
“Oof. A thousand Doc Martens,” meaning I would go to all the stores, buy all the shoes, move all the mountains if it took away my child’s pain. If only Doc Martens were the answer to stopping the bullies, alleviating the anxiety, and softening the grief of missing his best friend so very far away. Oof — a thousand Doc Martens.
If we had known how challenging this move would be for our child, how heavy the burden, we wouldn’t have done it. Hands down, we would not have made the move. Watching our child suffer for our decision, a decision we didn’t have to make, has become nearly unbearable. If I had known how big, how heavy this mountain would be, I’d have planted my feet, held my children tight, and we would not have moved — not an inch. But I didn’t know, so here we are. My child is fairly miserable and I spend every day pushing, trying to move this mountain, so that maybe he can be happy again. To be fair, not every day is bad. Some days are filled with so much magic I feel sure this move was worth it or even meant to be, but for now I’m exhausted. It seems mountains are impervious to even the strongest mother’s hands.
After months of trying everything I could think of to make my child happy, I finally accepted that I can’t; but that acceptance has come with its own set of grief. I’ve wondered, if I can’t make my child happy, or at the very least, take away his pain, then what is my job? I asked this exact question to my husband, and that was when everything shifted. He pointed out to me that the few friends my son has made are because of friendships he’s cultivated on his own. No amount of finagling, school schedule adjusting, or troubleshooting on my end has made a bit of difference. I would have been offended by this revelation if I weren’t so relieved.
I may not know how to move a mountain, but I have climbed many, and that is exactly what my son is doing right now — that’s what all of us are doing.
I’m writing from this oversized white chair in the corner of the sunroom. Climbing.
My kids are laughing in the other room by the fireplace. Climbing.
Music is playing from my husband’s office as he works. Climbing.
Winnie the dog just flew past my window and into the forest which means she found a bunny or a squirrel, or if she’s lucky, both. Sprinting.
Tonight, I’ll tuck my children into bed, and if my son is sad I’ll give him my hand and remind him we are climbing this mountain together. I have no idea what is waiting for us on the other side, but I do know the very best parts of my life have always come on the heels of a climb.
As full-time mother to four kids, a published writer, and Community Manager for Tell(h)er Co, JILL YANCEY has learned to combine passion with parenthood. Most early mornings or late nights, she can be found writing in the fleeting quiet of her crowded-but-joyful South Carolina, USA home.
Her first novel, a careful examination of the mother-daughter relationships that have always captured her curiosity, is currently in production. She invites you to subscribe to Dear Writer, a monthly love letter to her fellow writers, and join in her #dailymemoir practice on Instagram @jillwritesabook. Subscribe to Dear Writer at jillyanceyauthor.com.