The first time it happened, my youngest was in the fifth grade. Summer evenings are less structured, so a missing person at dinner more common, but this was a school night and the first time our eldest had driven straight from class to the summer job she had extended into the fall. The table setter had not gotten the word and as the remaining five of us sat down, her absence was noted by all, especially our son, his eyes filling.
"This is what it's gonna be like when Molly goes to college."
Whaaaaaaat????
Brake! BRAKE! BRAKE!!
Mamas know that their days with their babies/toddlers/school kids/pre-teens/teenagers are limited, but we don't understand until it is upon us. Understanding is like everything else that ejects us from comfort; it doesn't happen until it's over. I sobbed the first day she went to kindergarten ... AND first grade, and middle school, and high school, and when she passed her driving test, and the day we left her at Crosby Hall at Ole Miss, ten and a half hours away from home, fearing I had not prepared her enough to be out in the world on her own. My kids are my career. I was the one whose job it was to know everything; acetaminophen dosing charts, allergies, favorite colors, favorite foods, piano lesson times, tutoring schedules, and check-up appointments. I'd made and updated regularly a Jones Family Handbook for babysitters and grandparents who came to watch the kids or in case I died unexpectedly. I can plan for when I'm not around, but what about when they aren't around? What the hell am I supposed to do without anyone to need me?? Just like every other question I have, the answers were already there. I had just been pretending not to notice.
From the moment they arrive, our babies are not ours, they are their own. We are the vessel, nurturer, guide, law, and advocate for these precious creatures, but we forget that we did not craft them with our own hands for our purpose. We did not choose their skills, talents, gifts, hair color, or temperament. The aim was not for us to always have a job or constant companion; it is for our children to be capable of helping move humanity forward, and if we have done our job well, they will contribute to society by forging their own path and finding their own way. This is impossible if I don't let go of her hand.
Our flood of nurturing and protective instincts is real, but it excuses every "I can do it myself" they've uttered and we've ignored or fought. So now, in these last days before the big move, they make their last stand. They turn cold to our warmth. They become cranky, rude, and ungrateful because it's impossible to leave if they don't want to go.
Your role as mama is about to change, but I promise, it is not for the worse. The contact becomes less frequent but more meaningful. Themes emerge. Their need for concise wisdom will require your concentration and creativity, graciously imparted, to allow them to recognize truth for themselves, rather than being told. Guided questions and analogies using their specific interests (as only a parent can) will be the connection that not only remains intact but thrives.
Hold your tongue when he tries to shove the head of his bed into the closet to make it "kinda my own room" or she starts hanging pictures on the walls before putting her clothes in the dresser. Don't cry and hang on when you leave. Tell them that they can do it. Let them be the first to call you and ask what they did that day without filling them in on what you are making for dinner (tell them sandwiches). Allow yourself the time to grieve - I may or may not have been guilty of crying in my closet for three days - and then on the fourth day, get up early and go for a walk. Call your friends who are also struggling and go to a movie or float the river or choose a new paint color for the laundry room. Read. Make every night a binge-watch with your husband. Buy a new frying pan, athletic socks, and mascara - stuff you've held off doing for yourself because you haven't had the time. And call your own mama - there's a good chance she'll accept your apology for being cranky the day before you left for college, too.
