Mom Friends, Adverbs, and Relinquishing Control

It’s 6:30 am. Levi left for work 25 minutes ago, and the house has been wonderfully, gloriously quiet ever since. I recently read most of Steven King’s On Writing and now feel tremendously self conscious every time I use an adverb in an essay. I search for “-ly” in my documents and google synonyms of verbs and do my very best to eradicate them, but as I listen to the furnace kick on and off this morning, I’ve decided I like adverbs. I use them in my daily speech. I think they add oomph and pizzazz to an otherwise ordinary sentence. 

Maybe that means I’m a terrible writer. But right now, as I sit here wishing I had another cup of coffee beside me instead of a glass of water, I don’t really care. 

One of my dearest “mom friends” moved away last week. We said goodbye multiple times in the days leading up to her departure, and each time tears welled in my eyes and a sense of hollowness filled my chest as we hugged, promising we’d see each other soon. That she’d be back in September when I have the baby. That we’d plan girls weekends and girls & kids weekends and everything in between. That goodbye was simply “see you later.” 

But even as I type this, I’m wiping tears off my cheeks. Because as much as I want them to, those weekend visits and weekends away won’t replace the 9 pm “Royce is puking do you have pedialyte” texts or “can you grab onions and garlic at the store for me” phone calls. They won’t replace the porch-drop-turned-twenty-minute-conversations we drug out in her foyer until my kids screamed at me from the car to let them get out and play with their friends. They won’t replace playdates with our Friday “Chaos Crew,” or birthday dinners, or bathroom salon hair appointments. 

The friendship will continue. Of that I am absolutely certain. Through Marco Polo, and group texts, and Facetime—it will continue. 

But it’s doing daily life together I’ll miss. 

As I said last week via text to her: being an adult is so stupid sometimes. 

My kids will be up in 11 minutes, Royce’s door squeaking before his feet thunder down the hall toward me, his energy already outpacing mine at 7 am. If it’s a good morning, he’ll accept what I offer for breakfast, won’t wake up his sister before she’s ready to be awake (and he’s ready to see her), and will comply with my requests to make his bed, feed the dog, and put his clothes in the hamper. 

If it’s a bad morning, well, it will be the opposite.

Sometimes I wish I had a crystal ball and could predict the way our morning would go, the way a friendship would play out, or the way an essay or blog post would be received. I convince myself being prepared for the future would allow me to accept it more easily, invite whatever comes my way with acquiescence rather than resistance. 

But more likely, I would use that crystal ball to try to change the future altogether. I would try to keep friends from moving away, keep Monday moods from happening, and keep my words from falling short. I would use a glimpse at the future to try to control the future. 

Because even without a crystal ball, I try to control as much of my life as possible—including the parts that haven’t happened yet. 

In the name of prevention, proactiveness, and preparedness, I try to position myself to attain the best possible outcome. And it’s not all bad. The green smoothies, exercise, and yearly “well checks” at the doctor surely do more good than harm. Waking up before my kids, drinking coffee in uninterrupted silence, and writing words (nonsense?) while the sun comes up do, in fact, help me be more patient and present with my kids through the day. And the first aid kit, satellite gps, and fire starter I carry while hiking could, in fact, save my life in case of an emergency.

But. 

Healthy living won’t keep me from getting hit by a bus tomorrow. Morning quiet time doesn’t actually affect the moods of my children when they come out of their rooms in the morning (or keep me from eventually losing my temper on any given day). And a fully loaded hiking pack doesn’t guarantee I won’t someday slip and fall over a cliff. 

I am marginally, at best, in control. 

I can’t keep my friends from moving away, I can’t keep Royce from waking up with the Monday grumpies, and I definitely can’t make you (or anyone else) like these words I’m writing. 

In fact, the only thing I can control is my reaction to the events of the future. Of the present. All of it. 

And, of course, the number of adverbs I use.