NFL Red Zone blared on the TV as I looked down at Connor’s attempt. “You are failing at Mike Deagle shirt folding school,” I cracked.
Connor laughed, not bothering to argue. He was sitting on the floor, back against the sectional, his entire wardrobe of shorts, pants, t-shirts spread around him in piles like lily pads on a late summer lake.
“Here, let me show you again,” I said. I held the shirt longways, fingers curling around the shoulders, flicking the fabric into a rectangle then folding it over like I worked at the Gap. It was the same technique Mike had taught me close to thirty years ago.
Wrinkle-minimizing and space saving, like all of his favorite things.
We folded the rest of Connor’s t-shirts with varying levels of success. He mated his socks, rolled his shorts, stacked his hoodies. After pulling aside three outfits for the road, he stuffed everything else into two cavernous duffle bags and one hard-shell suitcase. He lugged them out to the garage and plopped them into the bed of his truck.
Twelve hours later he was off, moving cross-country for his new job in Colorado.
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When friends and family heard the great news, they sent their heartfelt “atta boys” to Connor. And then, their praise to me.
“Way to go mom!”
“Nice job, Sue!”
“What a long road, you did it!”
I have always struggled with this. For being congratulated for something the kids have achieved.
The first time I remember cocking my head with confusion was that December day in 2022 when Kendall opened the online admissions portal to find her Tulane acceptance letter covered in virtual confetti. When I shared her news with my dad, who is not one to blow smoke, he texted back “Congrats to Kendall, and great job, mom!”
I remember looking down at that text and thinking, ‘Mom? What’s this got to do with me?’
Yes, I’m her mother. I clothe her and feed her and love the living daylights out of her. But the accomplishment of getting into her dream school? That’s all her.
Same with Connor. The accomplishment of getting a dream job in his dream state? All him.
But wait.
I’m sitting here tracking Connor as he drives into Kansas, and something’s nagging at me. Because I also believe in this thing called “ordinary magic” that I learned about from resilience researcher Dr. Ann Masten.
Way back in the 70s, when people still thought resilience was something kids either had or didn’t have, like being left-handed or having red hair, Masten called b******t on that whole idea. Her research showed that resilience, actually, grows like a weed. It just needs a few of the right conditions and it will find a way: small acts of encouragement and warmth from parents and teachers, regular routines of problem solving, paying attention, sharing their toys, and environments that offer opportunities for kids to play and explore safely.
All of that creates the conditions where kids naturally learn to adapt when things get difficult.
It’s magic because it works. It’s ordinary because it’s commonplace, scattered throughout the relationships, classrooms, bed-time routines, and play dates already present in everyday life.
Ordinary magic has become a pillar of my philosophy about surviving hard times: we all can develop resilience, given just half a chance.
So something doesn’t add up here.
I can’t have it both ways, can I? I can’t simultaneously believe that Connor did this all on his own AND believe that his resilience was cultivated. If I believe in ordinary magic, then I have to admit I played a part in creating it.
Alright, let’s dig into this thought experiment: if ordinary magic grows from the right conditions, what conditions did I actually set?
Well, there was the obvious stuff. I kept him fed and housed and loved. But that’s just baseline parenting, right? I’m not patting myself on the back for that.
However, I did some things differently after Mike died. I had to. Suddenly I was a single mom with two pre-teen kids. I quite simply couldn’t get them both to track practice and horseback riding at the same time.
And so, I let other people in.
Before Mike died, we were pretty insular. We saw friends and family of course, but we played our cards close to our chest. Family affairs, kid drama, advice giving stayed within the nuclear family. But when I was barely treading water through my own grief, I disintegrated those Deagle walls and let everyone who cared about the kids show up for them.
My mom became the carpool warrior and kitchen queen, racking up miles between school and sports and playdates and hobbies, and then cooking up delicious meals and delivering them with grandma hugs. Uncle Richie became the kid whisperer, always available to take the kids to a movie, or sit in silence, or chat about something Connor or Kendall weren’t ready to tell me. Connor’s homeroom teacher Mr. L suggested he take a break from the stress of debate team for a bit. Kendall’s principal Mr. Jefferson gathered a constant stream of communication from her teachers and let me know when he felt she was drifting off the rails.
Flash forward to this summer, Mike’s old coworker took Connor to lunch to talk through the industry. My dear friend Takis met him for coffee twice and massaged his resume. My work buddy Mike gave him industry insight, a pep talk, and let him drive his sports car. On Zoom calls, scores of business folks from the Colgate alumni network came through with advice no one can hear from their own mom. And Richie was still there too, letting Connor talk through all his options.
I orchestrated exactly none of those relationships. But I also didn’t shut them down. I didn’t insist we could handle everything ourselves. I stepped back and let Connor’s village support him.
And that’s ordinary magic, isn’t it? Not that I did anything spectacular, but I did get out of my Lone Ranger tendencies to set the conditions — the relationships, the openness, the safety — where Connor’s natural ability to adapt and thrive and land a badass job could flourish.
As Connor makes his way out west, he takes all of that ordinary yet magical resilience with him.
He’ll use it as he meets new colleagues, learns a new profession, figures out how to navigate a work day without a nap. Maybe even how to iron a shirt.
I’m going to miss him like crazy. I’m going to miss watching 22 seasons of Top Gear together. I’m going to miss answering his random questions like “How do you feel about the fall of the Soviet Union?” and “What do you think about pirates?... Or Rolls Royce vs Cadillac?” I’m going to miss the quiet hours we spent reading on the couch.
But maybe — and I’m still getting used to this idea — I can feel proud too. Not of his accomplishments, those are his. But of creating the conditions where his warmth and motivation and curiosity and ability to get along with anyone could unfold.
Even if I’m still figuring out how to accept the congratulations without feeling weird about it.
To the magic we accidentally create,
Sue
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