I've built my life around you

When the landslide just keeps coming...

Photo by Luma Pimentel on Unsplash

On the fourth day of my unmedicated labor with Z, my husband called my mom and my aunt to come up and help out. They were planning to come up once he was born, but women in my family have long labors. Very long labors. And things were taking more time than we had anticipated. My midwives encouraged us to get someone else up here so D could sleep. My mom and aunt made the six-hour drive up and arrived at the birth center. At some point, when labor was starting to get harder, I turned to my mom and said through clenched teeth, “You did not tell me it would be this hard.” I’m guessing most women have said some version of this to their mothers as long as humans have been giving birth. You know it’s going to be hard, but until you are in the middle of it, you have no idea that something could be THIS HARD.

Of course, once Z arrived via emergency c-section about 10 hours later, it all seemed worth it. I was already forgetting how exhausting and painful and toward the end, scary, it all was. All I could see was this tiny 7 lb. baby. And I had never been so completely consumed by love before.

L had a big birthday this week. Z had asked about coming home to celebrate. I, of course, was thrilled, and set off to pick him up as soon as I finished up work that day. We chatted about spring semester registration, which had just happened. He told me how pleased he was with his courses and how he had worked to have his schedule more concentrated. I was amazed to hear that he starts every day next semester at 8 or 9 a.m. By choice. The independence of college has allowed him to blossom in such a relatively short time. (Nine weeks…not that I am keeping track.) We stopped off to get birthday cards and gift cards for L. And we even had time to stop at the house. He hadn’t been home since he left for college. It was a different season now, and I encouraged him to go up to his room and get some warmer clothes. Despite assuring me he didn’t need them, a few minutes later he was asking me for a bag to put his things in. He said hello to his brothers. He paced around the downstairs, on his phone, like he had done every single day for so many years. And I was so happy.

We headed to dinner. Z was thrilled with the menu and had multiple things he was excited to order. L is fully embracing the role of difficult and adversarial teen these days. He proclaimed dislike of every other item on the table. But even the oppositional teen engaged in conversations with his brothers, and I just felt complete to have the four people I love most in the same place. About half way through the meal, he started asking when we could leave, despite this being his birthday dinner. This caused a little tension, but I tried to diffuse with presents, which worked relatively well. I can remember many holidays when we were together with my siblings and their families, seeing my dad sitting with a look of such contentment on his face. I would go over and sit next to him and he would say, “I am never happier than when all my kids and grandkids are together.” While it made sense to me then, it has a whole new meaning now.

We finished dinner and after hugging his brothers and Dad goodbye, Z and I headed back to his dorm. We talked about his ethics class and his understanding of the various types of ethics, with a good amount of time spent on utilitarianism and nihilism. I got a good refresher in Plato’s Republic and Euthyphro, which I could barely pull up from my own college days. He talked about his realization that the choice you make about college is necessarily uninformed because you can’t really know what is important until you have gone to college. He said he felt even better about his choice now that he was here. And I felt so deeply happy to see this boy, this young man, coming into his own.

When we got to his dorm, he ran up to his room and switched out some of his summer clothes for the long sleeved shirts, flannels, and other cozy things he had grabbed from home. As I saw him dash across the parking lot to the front door, I felt something I hadn’t felt in a few weeks. My throat started to constrict slightly and I thought I might choke on my sadness. My first thought was annoyance. Why now? I thought I had this pretty well managed at this point. I hadn’t felt this level of sadness in several weeks. I pushed it away, knowing he would be back soon. But this was the waves of sadness I felt back in the summer welling up deep inside. I pulled out my phone, tried to distract myself with word games. Z came bounding back, blowing on his hands to keep them warm in this sudden blast of winter cold we’d been having. We said goodbye, he hugged me tight and long, as if he knew that a tsunami of tears was waiting to envelop me once the door closed, and he went back to his new home.

Photo by Peter Robbins on Unsplash

I pulled out of the small visitor parking lot, just in case Z was watching me leave (pretty sure the answer was no, if for no other reason than the cold.) But I pulled over in a church parking lot just down the street and I cried. And cried. And cried. Why is this still so hard? He is so happy. Maybe happier than I’ve seen him since he was little. College agrees with him. He is engaged and making friends and developing new interests and continuing with things he has always loved. I have had more meaningful conversations with him on a weekly basis than I’ve ever had. He is physically close. So close. I could be there in 30-40 minutes, depending on traffic. And I get to see him often enough. He will be home in two weekends to see his brother’s musical. And then home for four days for Thanksgiving.

Why do I feel gutted? Again? I already did this part.

I didn’t agree to this replay.

Was it because he was home? In his room. Talking to his brothers. Pacing from the kitchen through the living room, then the dining room, and then back into the kitchen again. Sitting in the chair playing a game on his phone.

Was it because all five of us were together at dinner? And it was so seemingly normal that L felt he could just be his usual teenage self? Except that it wasn’t. Because the last time the five of us were together for a meal was in late August.

Was it because L is not far behind Z? And Z being home reminded me of that?

Is it just because this is hard? And regardless of all the wonderful things, the exciting ways Z is growing and becoming an adult that I love and am so very proud of, it is a loss?

An old friend told me that having your child go away to college was like birth. And yes, this pain reminds me of that pain, though it is entirely emotional. It is a pushing through something so utterly painful because you know there is no other way through.

And yet, this time, I won’t come out the other side of that pain with a sweet infant. I just keep coming back to this absence. This place where he used to be and now isn’t. And I know, it isn’t a final loss. He is growing and thriving and expanding into a bigger world now.

But I want to scream at the world, “Why didn’t you tell me it would be so hard?”

And so, I’m telling you.

You don’t have time to think about it when you are in the midst of raising littles. You can’t think about it. But it is coming. And it is hard and wonderful and heartwrenching and heartbursting all at the very same time.

These little people grow up and leave.

And it is hard as hell.

And I would do it all again.

Well, I've been afraid of changin'
'Cause I've built my life around you
But time makes you bolder
Even children get older
And I'm getting older too

~Stephanie Nicks

All photos were taken by the exceptional Dana Giuliana, unless otherwise noted.