A mother's last day

It’s the dissolution that’s getting to me, the cliched beginning of the end.  The end of our family as we know it. I think you know what I’m talking about.  I’m not sad that he’s leaving, it’s what we’ve all wanted for as long as I can remember.  It’s what I wanted when I was his age.  I couldn’t wait to go to BYU, the land of my dreams.  But I wasn’t the parent.

It’s not that I’m worried.  I’m pretty much the opposite of a helicopter parent.  He’ll be fine.  It’s just that it will never be the same.  No matter how often Christmas and summer breaks come around.  I think I hate it.

It’s like this morning, going in to wake up kids.  I could only muster a half-hearted “time to wake up” and a little nuzzle and a kiss and then I had to leave them.  My youngest daughter lay there effortlessly under the cover in the early summer sun, the leaves outside her window tinkling in the young day.  Her smooth cheeks sun-kissed from the lake, her nose losing its top layer, freckles peeling off, it was all too much to disturb; I couldn’t bring myself to arouse them from their deep summer slumber.  In the split second that I made that decision, it was as if all our days together raced through my mind in one quick memory: kissing my tiny babies, so relieved they’d finally succumbed, and then anticipating their little awake-sounds from their cribs.  I can’t believe she’s filling in her whole bed.  And that I have so little time left.

Because now I’ve seen how short that time is.  I know I hate it.  I want what’s happening.  I’ve always been the kind of mom to teach skills, to encourage self-sufficiency, to let them explore and learn, to allow a few injuries and heartaches for the sake of growth.  I’m good with that.  But here we are.  And I suppose it’s worked on some level because he’s leaving.

I think life is good when most of the kids are riding along in elementary school.  Someone told me that once, and so I’ve mulled that over.  I have to say I agree.  You’re off the hook as far as sippy cups and diapers.  Homework is still relatively familiar.  Summers are gloriously simple affairs at the parks and lakes.  The zoo is still charming, spray parks and wading pools provide entertainment for hours.  Everyone’s around for dinner.  We can count on story time and an occasional nap. Their bedtime comes before ours.  They can handle some chores, they’re eager to learn, life seems to coast along for days, months, even years at a time.  Until there’s a lurch.  It’s like the downhill part of Thunder Mountain and you wonder if it will ever slow down so you can catch your breath.  You chug along, gaining momentum through jr. high, a little curve here and there, a maybe a tiny change in topography, but nothing you can’t handle.  Until that downhill part.  You never do really catch your breath when they’re in high school or when you’re accelerating on the tracks.  Because before you blink the ride’s abruptly over and you can hardly believe how fast it went after waiting in line for so long.  But the seat ejects you and you’re shuffled away from your now-warm seat.  I feel like I’d been anticipating this ride ever since I was his age.  It’s what I always dreamed of.  But to see the ride end is breaking my heart.

A seasoned friend once told us they’ll leave as fast as they came.  We had five kids in eight years.  I hate that our family dynamics are morphing.  I was so used to having them all home in the evenings, reading, eating dinner together, comparing notes about the day.  I loved having Andrew come in to our room at 10 or 11 and finally start to talk about life.  I’ve told you before how soothing the sound of his belt grinder’s been, humming along in the garage.  It’s been a blessing to have him home so much, to have him engaged in a hobby right outside our door, reminiscent of my dad working in his upholstery shop, also right off the kitchen.  I hate that he’s tidying up his shop, finishing up his knife orders, packing away old shirts.  I knew it would come.  We’ve counted the months and weeks even.  But the days are killing me.  Because I only have today left.

I think it’s grief.  I know it is.  Grieving a life we’ve loved but have to give up for something better.  Better?  I suppose that’s the right word.  But I’m not quite there yet.  Give me some time.  Because I’m not not sure what could be better than the seven us home on Sunday nights playing games over ice cream and popcorn.  I’m not sure what could be better than late nights on the lake catching fish as the sun really does turn sky-blue-pink and the loons welcome their mates home.  I’m not sure what’s better than cheering on the kids as they wrestle their dad for family home evening activity and the boys being almost as strong.  I’m not sure what’s better than being at church together, all seven of us filling up the pew, close enough to touch, heads on one another’s shoulders for support.  I’m not sure what’s better than gathering together at the end of the day for family prayer, everyone safely home after a full day, sharing thoughts about what’s transpired and what’s on our minds.

But I trust because I have faith.  I have maybe only one or two strong points, but faith is one of them.  A gift that’s always brought me comfort.  And so I trust that while so much of what I’ve felt secure about is changing, there are still good times ahead.  He will continue to grow and learn and even become more engaged in our family as he comes to realize and recognize it’s what’s mattered all along.

So yes, I hate it.  I hate that what we had is changing.  But I’m also the kind to not dwell on things I can’t change.  I find myself saying “What do you do?” all the time because so much is out of my control.  You do the best you can, in that you love along the way no matter what, you never give up the hugs, you continue to look for and see the little kid inside, you cherish the times he hangs out with the family instead of his friends, you stay up late, you get up early, you don’t smother or try to control, you support, encourage, and teach.  What else can you do?

And so, on my last day with my son home in the way it’s been for the past 18 years, I’m not even sure what to say.  Except I’m so glad I got in line.  It wasn’t always what I thought it would be.  I didn’t expect a few of the dips.  And I certainly wasn’t anticipating some of the hills.

All I know is it was worth the ride.  I just wish I could do it again.