I have spent most of my life watching carefully as the tide slowly went out. I have watched for my children's safety, analyzed their friends, helped with school work, worried about their goals, and watched them get married and start families of their own. I have watched through triumphs and failures, through happiness and sadness, through health and sickness. I watched them as siblings, then as spouses and finally as parents. I have watched them make great choices, and choose not so great alternatives. I have watched and watched and watched.
But now as I approach eighty I find that the tide, which has not become a full flood tide yet, has ceased to ebb. As the tide begins to turn, I am conscious of my offspring beginning to keep an eye on me. I find that they are having conversations behind my back. 'Is she alright?,' or 'Have you heard the latest?' or 'Do you think she should be doing that?' At first I found it amusing, this cabal of three, who are united in a growing degree of watchfulness. Then I found it a bit disconcerting. I am the one that has kept an eye out while they led their lives. But now they are the ones exercising a growing degree of vigilance. And I know that the tide will probably become more of a flood tide as I grow yet older.
In the end I am touched by their care and attentiveness, but I wish it could be done without worry. Maybe I cannot climb Mount Everest with them, but I can learn to sit contentedly at the base of the peak. And when they return I can look forward to tales of the views and listen to their adventures. I welcome the fact that they can make sure I am left at the bottom of the hill with a bottle of water and a good book, but they should not worry about me. I am fine. Because for me, it will always be an ebb tide. I am still watching.