This is a time of transition. I can feel us moving to another phase, another season, in every sense of the word. I am aware of that deep in my body and my spirit. I dislike change with every fiber of my being, and I wish I was able to let go more. I’m really more of a holder-onner. Still, I continue to remind myself that this is futile effort, and that my white knuckle grip on every day is only serving to exhaust me. I wear a reminder over my heart.
We are shedding skins around here. Spring is slowly creeping around the edges of our hours, and with every day it seems more inevitable, though I think there is snow forecast for this weekend. It’s still raw and chilly, though, and we all shiver like the brand-new, slender crocuses. Grace and Whit are re-adjusting, slowly, to the school routine after two weeks off; I’m waking them out of sound sleep in the mornings, yet finding them unwilling to go to sleep at night. There have been some reminders in my life of how near the precipice is, always, and of how we tread, every single day, on the line between divinity and disaster.
And then I read these beautiful words by Rebecca at Altared Spaces, about the ultimate parenting transition. I read this post on Tuesday and by halfway through I was literally sobbing – not just the standard tears-rolling-down-my-cheeks that happens every day, but full-on gasping for air, actively crying. The line that gouged itself into me was this one: “I came here to let her go.” I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Isn’t this, ultimately, the story of what we all came here to do, as parents? Aren’t we letting to every single day?
Even knowing that, I’m chilled and stunned by the idea that someday – perhaps as soon as 7 or 8 years from now, if she goes to boarding school – I will hug and kiss Grace and watch her walk away. I remember hugging my mother on the grass lawn in front of a dorm in New Hampshire in September 1990. That was an particularly draconian farewell: she drove to Logan and got on an airplane to London. Talk about far away. I didn’t know until years later that she cried in the car driving away. I went up to my little teeny closet of a room and sobbed my heart out. I was scared and lonely and excited, and on the edge of something big.
There are certainly major, notable goodbyes and transitions in parenting, the ones that we all anticipate: kindergarten, high school, college, weddings. But there are also tiny little goodbyes every single day. Parenting is a constant farewell. It’s replete with joyful hellos, too, of course, but it’s undeniable that every day holds an ending. Every night before I go to bed I carry Whit to the bathroom, his blond head heavy on my shoulder. Every single night I wonder if this is the last time. I haven’t read Good Night Moon since I wondered if I ever would again. The truth of that chokes me up, sits like a stone in the heart of me, a core of loss I simply can’t ignore. Every day, infinitessimally but inexorably, they move further away from me.
I commented on Rebecca’s blog, letting her know how much her words touched me. And she emailed me back and said this:
You are so passionate in the way you love your children. Sometimes I think you taste letting them go regularly. You live WIDE awake. At times that overwhelms you.
And I read her words, crying fresh tears, thinking: yes, yes, yes. The big goodbyes will submerge me in emotion, fear and grief and pride all mixed together, of that I am sure. But the little ones are in many ways harder for me, since they are so slippery, so difficult to note. And I do taste them regularly. I hope she’s right about living wide open; truthfully, I often doubt that.
And now, off to another bedtime. More pages of Harry Potter, another turn at the Ghostie Dance, the Sweet Dreams Head Rub, and a full-body hug before bed. Another night when my attention, my kiss, my hug can fix any problem at all. How many more nights will it be my privilege to do, and be, this? I don’t know, and that not knowing haunts me. But tonight, it is. I try to focus on that.
That’s the magic of mothering – it never completely disappears, as you and I both know.
No matter how old we are, a hug from our mothers can, for that instant, make the world a safe place once again.
You will always, always be that person for Grace and Whit, no matter their age, and there is great comfort in that.
A friend of mine from journalism school’s five-year-old son Robbie died yesterday after a year-long cancer fight. When I heard that, I went and got in bed with E, feeling so fragile, so lucky, so grateful. And resolved to make being present and, yes, saying goodbye, much more a practice than I feel I have done, or have been doing. Thank you (again) for sharing your own path so beautifully. Your words if nothing else (and there is so much else!) are a gentle touchstone to that connection and that longing and that love.
Thank you for letting me in so very much. How kind of you. How generous. And how very like you.
This is my experience of parenting: there always feels like more that could be done. There is always another book that could be read, another hug that could be given, another homemade snack I could have made instead of the granola bar I grabbed because I’m rushing.
The theme of “this is enough” reverberates through my life. This. Here. Now. This is enough. I am enough.
When I live longing for more I miss that NOW. When I live pondering the past I miss that NOW. This is enough.
And I think, as I arrived on that campus, preparing to say that ultimate goodbye to my sweet daughter, I let myself acknowlege I really have been here for her life. We are unquestionably wrapped together: stone and moss.
Thanks again for your parenting example and for sharing the journey with so many of us.
I’ve read your blog for some months now and I connect so much to your posts like this. The smaller goodbyes are harder for me, too. I did the first day of preschool without tears about a month ago. However, it’s the little everyday moments, the sneaky passage of time that breaks my heart. And yet, even so, I try (and I’m doing well!) to savor each moment with a smile rather than tears. It’s so hard to not mourn what was, but SO exciting what’s to come!
Familiar winds of change are sifting through our spirits here too.
I’m with you here, Lindsey. I used to fight back tears every time I dropped my kids off at preschool… always feeing the fleeing nature of such precious moments, such ephemeral treasures. Conversely, I have found that my kids seem just as dear as they mature and grow… funny how the “big kids” on the monkey bars seemed like brutes when my little ones could hardly stand in the sand… but as they grew, all kids became cuter, and younger, and most of the time dear to my every aging eyes. Sometimes I think that the small good-byes just may lead to the small hellos of grand-parenting…
I really don’t have words for this post. One of my favorites. It is everything I aspire to be and everything that breaks my heart. Lately they seem to be the same thing …
Tonight my yoga teacher training started and I forgot to buy a new journal. So I used my half-used “quote journal” and I turned to a page with a quote from you about how you live with your attention on your intention. It just melted me. Thank you for this amazing blog!
xoxo