By Molly M. Jones 
Every Sunday during my daughter’s senior year of high school, I posted “Senior Sunday” photos on social media; adorable photos of my girl when she was younger – when she wore what I picked out, let me put her hair in pigtails, and thought her dad and I knew everything. I also posted pictures of my now 6’1″ lineman for his “8th grade graduation,” from when I could still pick him up and he got excited to show me new Ninja Turtle toys.
Now those old pictures pop up in my Facebook memories, and they always make me stop and smile. I am not one to get overly upset about my kids’ passing through different stages. Each stage has its own memories, and I feel like my family has gotten better with every year and experience.
When they were small, I was the kids’ personal assistant and entertainment director. During the school year, I went to every parent/teacher conference, helped with homework, provided meals, and planned days. The summer planning started in February, with color-coded spreadsheets of camps, carpools, and activities keeping them occupied and cared for every minute of my workday.
Life looks different now. I can spend days at the office without worrying about picking up after summer camp (that inexplicably ends at 3 in the afternoon) or needing to figure out how to make it to school events in the middle of the day. But the order and organization have been replaced by something new.
In the summer, a full year of stuff from my daughter’s dorm (clothes, shoes, sheets, towels, gloves, bats, books, and backpacks) is dropped in my dining room next to my son’s similarly abandoned school supplies. The mess that I force myself not to clean up for them will be put into bags and boxes by my daughter and moved back to college for the fall semester, and my son will sort through the school supplies as his high school classes start. (Yes, it has been there the entire summer!) Their lives are now moving through transitions I no longer initiate or control.
I was as prepared as I could be to watch my son start high school and my daughter go off to college. I was even excited (at first) to have them bring all of their stuff home for the summer.
But I was not prepared at all for my grandmother’s life to also take up residence in my dining room.
Downsizing my grandmother’s world to fit into assisted living added many of her belongings to the kids’ stuff in my dining room. It was hard seeing things I remembered as part of her home for decades being discarded, not by her choice, and I wanted to keep everything. Each chair and knick-knack brought back some of the best memories of my childhood, and going through boxes holding thousands of photographs documenting her life has been bittersweet. The photos showing a young and fiercely independent woman are a reminder that 93 years have taken their toll. I should start a “Senior Sunday” tradition for her, celebrating her 93 years.
At the same time I am encouraging my grandmother to accept her more limited freedom, I am convincing my children to take over their own lives. My son spent this summer at football practices, weight-lifting, running, protein loading, taking ice baths in a giant trough in my backyard, and sleeping. He is learning to be his own motivation (I no longer make him go to practice), his own calendar keeper, and his own advocate to his coaches. At some point, he will realize he also needs to handle his classes, studying, and grades.
My daughter, at the same age as my grandmother was when she married my grandfather (19), spent the summer working and reluctantly spreading her wings. On one hand, she is quite capable of making her own decisions and spent the last year successfully juggling college athlete life in a new city. On the other hand, now that she is home, she still likes to ask me how to handle every minor inconvenience and get angry when I tell her what to do. The capital “MOM” or “MOTHER” when I am not able to respond immediately to her text is jarring, whether she wants help getting her car out of a tight parking spot, needs to know her social security number, or wants me to tell her where to find her lost license. We are all new at this. I am learning how to let go, and they are learning how to “adult.”
In a reverse mirror image of my role with my almost adult children, I am faced with an endless loop of conversations and complaints from my grandmother because I am forcing her to give up her independence. (Thank goodness my grandmother does not text. I cannot even imagine the angry capital letters!) While my daughter is excited to move to a slightly larger apartment-style dorm, my grandmother is angry about having to give up her larger two-bedroom apartment for a small studio-style room in assisted living. Not only is her living space much smaller and her independence limited, but she feels the stigma attached to assisted living. There is a perception that people are moved to assisted living when their family no longer wants to take care of them. For me, the decision to move her to assisted living was heartbreaking. It was a result of wanting to take care of my grandmother, but knowing she needed more help than I could provide. I wanted to keep her safe from falls, accidents, and daily medication lapses while still allowing her as much independence as possible. I may never be forgiven for the crimp I have put in her style. She misses having her car; she feels out of control when it is I who keeps track of appointments; she hates that she no longer controls her finances; and she refuses to rely on a walker in public. About once a week, she makes a decision that is not advisable or that causes difficulties, I think, in an attempt to assert her independence.
I am teaching my children to be more independent as I am forcing my grandmother to be less independent. It is absolutely time for my kids to take control of their lives as they get back to school and back into their routines, but I am finding it much harder to accept that it is time for my grandmother to go in the opposite direction. If only I could turn back time for her to the days of those old photographs.
by Traci Rhoades 
by Tracy Gerhardt-Cooper 
by Meghan Riordan Jarvis 
