When your children are small every first and last is a celebration. First steps, last diaper. First solids, last nursing. First time they get into the car by themselves, last time you have to buckle them in. First time they tie their own shoes, is the last time you must bend over to do it. These are joyous moments of independence for them, a lighter workload for you. But somewhere around fifth grade the tide turns and suddenly all the firsts and lasts are no longer things you want to embrace. Their first heartbreak, first period, first time they lose a friend, first time they fail a class, last time they ask for your help, last time they call you first instead of their friends, last Girl Scout meeting, last pictures with Santa Claus, last bedtime story. Until you are realizing that this will be Lucy’s last Homecoming dance, last musical, last year of her waking up every morning in our house. The lasts just don’t stop, and you want them to stop, you want to scream for them to stop, but then…
I ask her if she wrote her essay, and she has already done it. I tell her that she needs to talk with a teacher about a problem, but she already did. I remind her to do her laundry, but it was already finished. I see her sing on stage and cannot believe what she’s accomplished in seven years of private lessons, her voice carrying through the theatre. I see her embrace who she is and I know, and I mean I know deep in my heart, I know like I know my name, that she is ready to leave.
On one hand, congratulations. We did it. We taught her to talk and walk and read and even do fractions (although it almost killed me) and love and be kind and responsible and a good citizen and to think of others and to be curious and to embrace her gifts. We did it. We finished the job. I could not be prouder. But that is the bitter sweetness of parenthood, you succeed when they no longer need you.
And now all we can do is wait. Will she come back? Will she continue to want to have a relationship with us? At some point she will have distance and perspective of her childhood and she is going to return with some hard questions and even more difficult truths. Will we be able to hear those? Will we humbly explain that we did the best we could? Will we tell her we didn’t have the answers and we made mistakes? Will she forgive us?
People like to tell parents of young children that the time just flies, and they should relish it while they can, but I think that advice is rubbish. The time doesn’t fly, it plods, but like the tortoise it keeps moving and you can’t stop it. Honestly, would you want to? I loved reading “The Wizard of Oz” with my kids and all of us discovering together that the ending is horrible. But I also love going Christmas shopping with Lucy while she helps me pick out presents for family members. I loved snuggling with my little ones, but I have also loved having Lucy plop next to me in bed and do her homework, sighing dramatically at her teacher’s requests.
Yes, time moves on, but so do we, and I wouldn’t want to go back to being the person I was at 20 or 30 and I also wouldn’t want my child to go back to who they were at 5 or 10. Because what I wish most for my kids is for them to embrace a life-time of learning, growth, love, joy and the ability to welcome each season of their life, and the best way for me to teach that is to model it.
So yes, I am already missing Lucy, but I am also rejoicing at this new chapter in our relationship.
But I am still going to cry about it.
