My Children are from Mars, Mercury, and a Galaxy Far Far Away

When you head home from the hospital with a little bundle in an infant car seat, you worry about sleepless nights, developmental milestones, and how you're ever going to pay for childcare, much less college.

What you don't really think about is that somewhere in that tiny little body is a unique and often unfathomable individual who will very soon develop a will of its own.

While I never had very distinct ideas of what I wanted my children to become and considered myself too “progressive” to slot them into the conventional triad of doctor/lawyer/business professional, I did have half-formed dreams of them winning awards, playing in an orchestra, or at least making the honor roll.

And then they started growing up, and my expectations met the irresistible twin forces of personality and peer pressure.

My oldest (the one from Mars) was very independent and cared little for convention. In preschool, he decided that it was cool to wear knee socks pulled up all the way over his knees, and soon his best friend's mom was calling me to ask me, “Where did you get those socks? My son won't go to school without them!”

In elementary school, he came up with his own Halloween costumes based on characters from book like Roald Dahl's The BFG. The year he dressed up as Pippi Longstocking, complete with bright red wig and pig tails, I remember one parent looking at me and saying, “That's Mars? I thought he was a girl,” and then turning bright red in case I took offense.

In middle school, he insisted on taking up martial arts and giving up dance, despite having the chance to fulfill his mother's dream of seeing him on stage in a leading role in The Nutcracker.

By high school, I knew very well that I could offer Mars advice, and he would smile and then do what he wanted anyway.

My youngest son (Mercury) was born almost ten years after his older brother and spent the first five years of his life as the object of adoring attention. We were so happy when we uttered his first word, “bubble” in a tiny breathy voice that we didn't realize he would never stop talking.

Mercury is always in motion and in close orbit around his older brothers. As a person who is uncomfortable around weapons of any kind and squeamish about depictions of violence,it was quite disconcerting to have a child who begged for an air soft gun from the age of eight and got his brother to convince me that it was “okay” for him to play Modern Warfare.

If there is a child who fit classic definition of ADD/HD, it is Mercury, and that can make life as a mother a little exhausting. I've been known to tell him after repeated badgering to make sure I'm listening, “No, I'm not listening. You've been talking nonstop, and I need a little break. Please!”

Peer pressure plays a considerable role in Mercury's view of the world, and that means I have become even more of an “embarrassment” to him than I ever was to any of the others.

Yet Mercury has also fulfilled one of my cherished maternal dreams. He plays the violin very well and will soon be much better than I ever was.

And then there is my second son, who seems to exist somewhere in a galaxy far, far way. He has been my most challenging and enigmatic child. Galaxy is the kind of quiet, unassuming young man that adults love and small children flock to.

He has a natural athletic grace and could play any sport on a competitive level, except that he only likes to compete against himself. On a long board or a surf board, he is a wonder to behold, and when he's not doing that, he's likely in his room, playing the guitar and composing music.

If you ask my children what they want to become when they grow up, Mars is practically there. In May he'll graduate from college with a degree in Political Communication, fluent Arabic, and a plan to go to law school. Mercury, on the other hand, is still torn between wanting to blow things up and his desire to become a race car driver.

And Galaxy is still somewhere far, far away contemplating his options.

Twenty-one years ago I would never have imagined being the mother of three such different individuals, and I know that's a good thing. Because if I've learned anything, it's that parenting is as much a process of letting go of expectations as it is of watching over and directing a child's path.

These three boys will find their own orbit, and I won't be the center of their universe any longer. But there will always be a gravitational pull between us, the familial tie of parent and child, and I trust that this force will keep us within the same ambit.