I have always considered myself a well-behaved kid. I never had a rebellious streak. When other kids were sneaking out their bedroom windows or down the fire escape, I was staying inside and writing short stories. My biggest streak of “badness” was watching Gossip Girl (for the sex) and Heroes (for the violence) at the ripe age of 12. But I never really saw my lack of rebellion as a problem. It just like wasn’t convenient. And anyway I was far more interested in fictional characters, travel and theater camp. Everything I needed as a kid was safe in the realm of parental acceptance.
And that’s where college changes things. Because unlike in high school, it’s no longer convenient to be the cherub child.
This makes sense. College is the textbook transition to independence, when bright-eyed adolescents emerge from the chrysalises of their suburban upbringings, shed the training wheels of parental supervision and finally become captains of their own lives. “Yes! You there with the slowly-disappearing acne. YOU ARE AN ADULT NOW!” Give you a university acceptance letter and you finally get to be your own person, make your own decisions, lose your training wheels and bust out of those age-old parental shackles. Ahh college.
That’s what’s supposed to happen. Hypothetically.
But things are a little less cut and dry for the cherub child. For me leaving for college was the wake-up call to my parents that I wouldn’t be around forever — a wake-up call that shocked them, scared them and made them hold on to the cherub-ness just a little bit harder.
When I say “my parents,” who I’m really talking about is my mom. She and I were incredibly close growing up and she’s always been my rock: There for me when I needed a shoulder to cry on, a cup of hot tea or a good heart-to-heart. But all of these things she gave me were always kid things; My relationship with her has always centered around comfort and even coddling.
Don’t get me wrong though, I’ve loved that.
I’m a sucker for bubble baths, mother-daughter bonding trips to the beach and sweet words of encouragement. But at the same time I’ve learned that I don’t really need those things anymore at college. I’ve learned how to treat myself, have nights of TLC and form my own pro-con lists when I’m making decisions. I’ve learned how to take care of myself by myself. I’ve learned to be independent.
While that is a wonderful accomplishment that I’m genuinely proud of, the “cherub child” label has made my self-sufficiency difficult. In my mom’s eyes, my budding independence is a detriment to my good behavior and because of that to my closeness to her. Putting myself in her shoes, I get it: If I don’t need to seek my mom out anymore for advice, wisdom and decision-making, she might worry. Will I seek her out at all? Or will I simply move on with my life with independence strapped to my back like a weapon, head bravely into the eye of the storm and leaving my upbringing and my parents in the dust.
When I put myself in my mom’s shoes I see how this could be downright terrifying. I’ve always been her best accomplishment. In a family that was constantly turning itself upside-down with chaos and conflict, I was the constant. The stable one. The easily-controlled one. From my mom’s perspective losing me means losing her sense of stability.
So there we have it: The eternal battle of the cherub child. Wanting to please the parents that have always had your back but wanting what everyone else does at the same time — freedom. It’s a sticky situation. But sitting in an armchair in Gilman one day and understanding my identity as the obedient and easy-to-control angel in my mom’s life has brought me peace of mind.
Because the thing is, I’m not really an angel. Not by any means. That sort of a label creates an unrealistic and impossible expectation of success and goodness that I can never live up to. And while I want more than anything to make my parents happy because of the woman I’m becoming, I’ve realized that I don’t have to be the angel to make them proud. I’ve realized that I’ve made them proud for 19 long years of my life, angel-ness aside. I’ve realized I’ve been a good kid and I should give myself credit for that.
So nowadays I’m not going to try to be my mom’s trophy on a golden pedestal anymore. I’m just going to be myself — my independent, imperfect, occasionally impulsive, often absent minded and yet still successful and thriving self. And I’m going to give myself the credit.
