A year ago I wrote about a "baby" on the bus, watching my littlest one head off to kindergarten. Looking back, it's probably the most accurate thing I've ever written. There was an almost physical sensation of my child being ripped away from me and sent off to begin his independence- a chaotic mixture of pride and sorrow. Now, a year later, we've crossed that threshold again, and the kiddos are off to start another year of school. 8-year-old will learn cursive and read state history and (god help us) play the recorder. My little guy has his own desk for the first time and nightly homework to do. Ugh. It's so good, so normal, so expected. But, as I've written before- why is it so hard on me??
Recently a colleague was circling the office, showing off pictures of his newborn son. We ended up having a lengthy conversation about diapers, sleep schedules, swaddling and pacifiers. Riveting conversation. No, for real. I've been through it and was happy to, in extreme detail, grace him with my experience and knowledge. And he's early enough into it that discussing breathable crib bumpers is still exciting. Now that I'm on the other side of all that, it's easy to feel like an expert, even though I remember struggling through figuring all that out when it was my turn.
Maybe that's it. I've got this base of knowledge that just sits there, unused. It's why strangers in the street are so quick to run up and tell you that you aren't burping your baby the right way. We learn these very specialized skills and then only get to use them for such a precious, short time. And, of course, they are all wrapped up in that hazy new parent bliss that is part delirious exhaustion, and part terrified joy of being the owner of this tiny, perfect person they let you leave the hospital with. If I was being totally honest, I would tell you that I cry on their birthdays, at their yearly checkups when the pediatrician tells me they are big and healthy, at Christmas now that they've started to squint their eyes doubtfully at me when I talk about Santa, and, let's face it, even when putting them to bed sometimes when I see how far down the bed their long legs now stretch. Yup, I cry about the kids a lot. I associate them getting older with them not needing me. And that sucks.
(I'm not delusional, I swear. I remember, clear as anything, holding a fussy newborn with a cranky 2-year-old clinging to my leg, un-showered, sleep-deprived, surrounded by piles of laundry and a sink full of dishes, wishing I could get 10 consecutive quiet minutes to myself. Believe me, I cried a lot then too!)
But now here they are, hopping off to school with barely a glance back. They are confident and ready and excited. They are gorgeous and smart and funny and full of trouble. They are everything I want them to be. Except little. I can just barely still scoop the 1st grader up and carry him for a few nostalgic moments. He thinks it's hilarious. He knows he's big. He knows he doesn't need me to hold him like that. I'm not sure if he does it for me or for him, but I still need it. I still need to be needed.
Added to all that now, is my awesome stepson - a child that came into my life when he was already a flourishing pre-teen. The fact is, he has never needed me. I'm happy and proud to be a parental figure in his life, but it's parenting at a whole new level. He doesn't love me by default, like my kids. I've been working on, and will always be conscious of how to be better at, earning his love and trust and respect. With him, and with my rapidly growing and developing kids, it's a constantly evolving challenge. I never know what new and complicated thing they are going to throw at me. Let's just say, these days it's very rarely nightmares and boo boos (ie. things I know how to fix!).
Reality is that I still need my mom. (Hi Mom, thanks for always reading these...) I always will. I know my kids will always need me. But every day it changes. They don't need me for basic survival, though sometimes their survival seems to depend me delivering a snack at the right moment or their little worlds come crashing down! And I couldn't be prouder of the people they are growing up to be. Some times at the end of the day I have to remind myself to take a deep breath and hold in these fleeting moments of their childhood- and also to let them go and let them keep growing up. Luckily we've got a long way to go (good lord, those looming teenage years scare the crap out of me), and time to keep figuring it out. They know mom cries sometimes and giggle when I tell them, jokingly, to stop growing up so fast. They always give me an extra hug and reassure me how much they love me. They are awesome like that - another sign that them growing up isn't all that bad.
