I dropped Z off at school on Monday. It was late afternoon, dark and wintery cold by the time we arrived at his dorm. The ride up had been quieter than other trips back to school, perhaps because we had had so much more time together and he had shared much of what he wanted to share with me. I felt some pressure initially to fill the space with conversation, but reminded myself that presence was enough. He texted furiously on his phone, chuckling to himself at times. I didn’t need to know what he was laughing at, just that he was connecting and enjoying his friends. When we got to the dorm, I found a spot in the tiny guest parking lot, and we took all we could carry to his dorm. He let me come up to his room—only the second time I have seen it since we moved him in in September. I was amazed by the orderliness and neatness of his suite and room—who knew six college boys could keep such a clean living space? We dropped off the first load of his stuff and took the stairs down to get the rest of his things back up to his dorm. I offered to help him with getting his new mattress topper on the bed, putting the sheets back on, and the new blanket he had asked for, given how hot his dorm room was. He declined, stating that he would be able to manage it. I found myself envying the concreteness of the task—something straightforward to do, easily accomplished. And that was my first clue that the tears were right there, just below the surface. The search for something to ground me, something to keep my mind off this impending separation meant I was holding back strong feelings. So I hugged him, said how much I loved having him at home, how I hoped his classes went well this week, and as I tried to ask him to call me and let me know how the first week of classes went, my voice cracked and I knew I couldn’t keep it together anymore. He held me tightly, said he loved me, and I was on my way.
I have a routine now to let the sadness come out. This was the concreteness I held onto as I waited for the elevator and then rode down to the lobby. I walked back to the car, passing families saying their goodbyes, students with armfuls of gifts and necessities for the upcoming semester. Cars were double parked in the visitor lot, so I put the empty suitcase and comforter in the trunk of my car, buckled in, and drove the few blocks to St. George’s parking lot, my place to have a good cry.
On those trips to and from college last semester, Z chose the music we listened to. One song in particular resonated with me and now, it is the song I listen to on repeat after dropping him off. It is my soundtrack for sadness, for letting myself feel the absence. I stop listening to it once the tears stop.
There is no particular significance to this song and its association for me with my missing Z. It’s just a song he introduced me to, a song we both love, a song that reminds me of him. I wish I could say that after my parking lot cry and the subsequent drive home, I let go of the sadness and stayed present in gratitude that he is moving on and doing well at college. The absence hurts more than that, however, and it took me a few days to move out of it. When I’m sad like this, I like to be by myself. I have a harder time being present for others outside of my kids. So I just hunker down, do what needs to get done, and disconnect a bit.
These past few months are not the first time I have cried in the car after dropping Z off somewhere. Seventeen or so Septembers ago, I started my car crying sessions. After 18 months of being mostly at home with Z, I went back to work. I had found a wonderful place for him, a home daycare that seemed lovely and nurturing. I was starting my clinical internship, my first time doing clinical work full-time and several years of juggling course and clinical work. I was enthusiastic about the work, excited to not have split attention while caring for clients. I had worked for seven years to get to this point in my degree. It was one of the final steps in my doctoral degree and eventual licensure. I had not anticipated when I started my graduate work that something else would hold priority in my life: A tiny little person named Z. I had not anticipated how sad I would feel leaving this little person who had turned my whole world upside down and inside out. I knew I would love him, had no doubt that I would be devoted to my baby. I had no idea how much his arrival would shift my priorities. In my original plan, I would have started the internship a year before, when he was just a few months old. Luckily for us both, things didn’t go according to my timeline and his conception took many, many more months than I had planned for. So now, here I was, driving the 35-45 minutes to and from work, crying my way through the absence of this enchanting little boy who captured my heart.
It took me months to adjust. I was relieved when I asked a colleague who had a similar aged toddler if she was struggling with the separation and she responded, “Of course I am.” And the tears would come again when we decided to switch to a center daycare. Because what if that was the wrong decision? What if he was sad and unhappy? How would I know? What could I do? (It was fine and he made friends and got to take dance and Spanish and learn about Diwali from one of his little friends.) And again when he started kindergarten and got on a bus to take him the few miles to school every day. (School was mostly fine and he loved learning and made good friends. It became less and less fine. And we eventually figured that out and corrected it.) Of course, the sadness I felt and processed through with him made these transitions easier with his brothers. But weekday commutes have often been a place where the worries and sadness and guilt over being a working mom have been cried through.
In between these crying bouts have been so many mundane and unremarkable days. Days of practicing spelling words and filling out homework sheets and reading first short books and then novels. Encouraging—sometimes bribing—kids to get into the car to get to soccer or piano lessons or theater rehearsal or a pediatrician appointment or birthday party or play date or hike in the woods. Trying to get toddlers to try new foods and eat less chicken nuggets, more asparagus and broccoli. Small moments that add up to a life well lived. I wasn’t always the calmest or kindest mom. When the boys were small, I traveled a lot for work and the stress of my job and raising these kids would get to me. I wish I could go back, tell myself that my time with them was more important than finishing a grant or stressing over some interpersonal conflict or slight at work. More important than meeting a boss’s unrealistic and unfair expectations. That I could take back the shortness, the upset I had over whatever small things had gone wrong. Instead, I have to hope that they will know I have always done my best.
That they are the most important thing in my world and have been since the moment they were born.
That they feel how very much they are loved.
A Mother Never Rests
Well here's what I know
Even when she's sleepin'
She's still dreamin' about you
That's the way that it goes
Even when she's laughin'
Part of her is worryin' there's somethin' she didn't do
She only sits four minutes, she's a hummin'bird in the livin' room
She's a silhouette smilin' with the weight of the world on her chest
She'll move a mountain for you by the afternoon
A mother never rests
She works in colors
It's her and the sun
Wakin' up early, bringin' light to everyone
She's countin' on angels
And she's hopin' they're there
But just in case, every time she says your name it's like a little prayer
And there's wishin' stars for the hurt and Band-Aids for how it feels
And the nightlight's on so even the sun gets to set
She's a stubborn believer that time and a clean house is how ya heal
So a mother never rests
There ain't a broken bone or a birthday that she'll forget
She bit her lip and didn't cry the day your hatchback left
And when you hurt she hurts, that's how it is
That's how it is, I guess
Well here's what I know
Even when I'm sleepin'
I'm still dreamin' all about you
~Barry Dean/Lori McKenna