Holding tight while you let go
I picked Z up this morning for breakfast. I texted him just before 9 am to say that we were on our way and he responded. Immediately. When we arrived at his dorm, I got out of the car to give him a hug. And he held me. Tightly. For a good few minutes. I handed him a bag with things I had collected for him—a package he had been waiting almost two months for, a gift card he’d left in his room, honey oatmeal bread I’d made for him, Italian butter cookies from the Italian specialty store near our house, a bike light his dad had ordered him, and his favorite gummi peaches. He exclaimed “thank you” with such enthusiasm, between that and the hug, the morning had already been made for me.
We drove to a diner. A, who is like an older sister to my boys and a dear friend to me, and M were with us. Z spent breakfast catching A up on college. What classes he is taking, how different their college academic paths were, what upcoming articles he is writing for the paper. He talked about the invitation to join the bicycle advocacy group on campus as a result of his op-ed piece on improving bicycle infrastructure. As I listened intently, part of me marveled at this young person next to me. It was as if the young Z who chatted incessantly and fervently about Egypt and trains and missing bolts on the playground structure had found his way back. He had a whole new world he was exploring and finding a place in. The newness and excitement of college were reminiscent of that young curiosity and wonder at the world and all it held for a 4 year old, 5 year old, 6 year old, 7, 8, 9, 10 year old. I am sure I smiled as I saw this familiar zeal re-emerge in the young adult I loved so much. My heart clenched, but this time with such joy, such pride. Is there anything like seeing your child following that much-loved Thoreau directive to “live deep and suck out all the marrow of life?”
It was a weekend of living fully for each of my kids, not just Z. L participated in a 24-hr musical at the theater he and his brothers had spent so much of their prepandemic time. Seeing him perform on that stage again was another moment of joyful exuberance. He has always had a comfort on stage that is infectious. Watching him and the other actors delight in bringing music and entertainment to the packed theater was just the best. Hearing the audience cheer and applaud the 30+ kids that devoted their Friday and Saturday to preparing a musical felt both exhilarating and so very familiar. Something I had missed over the COVID years.
M had decided earlier in the week that he wanted to attempt preparing Beef Wellington. So we researched recipes together, made a list of needed ingredients, and spent much of this afternoon in the kitchen preparing a dish neither of us had ever eaten or prepared. We worked together with M as the executive chef and came up with a dish that we all agreed was quite successful. Working with him on something he is excited about, seeing him satisfied and proud of his accomplishments, no words can convey what it means to a parent to witness these things happening for their child.
I have always wanted to be a mother. When I was five years old, I had picked out names for my future children. (None of my children have those names. Thankfully.) My desire to have a career and identity outside of parenting was also something I knew I wanted early in life. Although my early career ambitions to be a writer or a lawyer were not realized, I did complete my dream of remaining a student for as long as possible. For me, parenting has been by far the most rewarding aspect of my life.
Parenting was simultaneously much harder and more fulfilling than I had imagined. While the early years were so busy it was hard to find a moment to reflect, I knew from the moment I first held Z that nothing in my life would ever be the same. I had never loved anyone or anything as much as I loved that tiny person. And every day, every week, every month, every year, I somehow loved him even more. When L came along, I was terrified that I would not be able to love a second child with the passion and intensity with which I loved his older brother. But somehow, as I should’ve known it would, my heart opened even wider and I felt again upon meeting this precious baby that love such as the love I had for these two little beings could never be deeper, fuller, more all-encompassing. And then came, M—the completer of our family. I knew when he arrived that our family was all here.
One reason there is not a great deal written about what it is like to be the mother of a new infant is that there is rarely a moment to think of anything else besides that infant’s needs. I take her instructions without translating her meaning into words, but simply bypass straight to action. My brain is a white blur. I lose track of what I’ve been doing, where I’ve been, who I am. ~Louise Erdrich, The Blue Jay’s Dance: A Birth Year
Outside of a few poems, I didn’t write or reflect much on parenting in the first 15 or so years after Z was born. Of course, I fretted and overthought, over-read, and over-discussed parenting choices such as when or whether to allow my toddler to have sugar. (Z did not have a cake at his first birthday. So far, I’ve heard no complaints.) At what age should they have cell phones? How much time should they be allowed on video games? Does time out work? How can bedtime take two hours? No, really, how can this be possible? But the busyness of that time left little space for the type of reflection I had previously indulged. My brain, as Louise Erdrich so eloquently described, was a white blur.
So these past few months, as I see now the horizon of a life post raising children in the near future, I have taken the time to reflect, to think more about what being a mother has and does mean to me. Seeing the end of this period of my life has softened some of the sharp edges. When I clean up the sink after L’s morning routine, I don’t sputter and curse quietly. I take the 60-90 seconds to remember that in less than three years, I will be opening the same bathroom cabinet and tearing up at the emptiness on the shelf where all his products used to be. When I take M to breakfast and he sits largely silent in an almost visible cloud of teenage moodiness, I am grateful that he is still across from me. That even in this storm of emotion, we are together eating home fries, eggs, and pancakes. Because in five years, he, too, will be sitting in a college cafeteria across from friends.
I try to take it all in. To appreciate the small moments. To stop and listen when L decides 10 pm is the perfect time for practicing guitar and singing. When M sends me a video he finds hilarious. Because I am a short-timer now. The clock is marking each passing day. Hour. Minute.
And yet, when Z enveloped me in another tight, long hug when I dropped him back off at his dorm, I knew that while the time of them under my roof, my primary responsibility, is short, the lifetime ahead promises a different kind of connection. One that allows us both to use the space and distance to gain the long view on what it has meant to be parent and child. To recognize along with the inevitable failings and shortcomings, there is a love unlike any other. Unconditional, fiercely protective, endless, and all-encompassing.
You'll outgrow your shoes
You'll outgrow your bed
You'll outgrow this house
Just don't forget
When you're all grown up
But you don't feel that way
You're still gonna be my baby
Even when you're my age
~Lori McKenna
One of my favorites!
Yes💕