I don't "take breaks" from them very often, though. It is frequently months between my "no kids" hours, and usually that's just fine. Part of that is simply a matter of money and time: we have no where to go, no money to spend when we get there and no time to go anyway :) When we do go exploring, we usually enjoy taking the kids with us. I love kids generally, and my kids particularly. I don't need to get away from them more often than that. I hardly leave my babies at all, and my older kids only occasionally. Don't get me wrong, once I drop them off or leave them with a sitter, I'm always glad for the break and I'm not a panicky or teary mom when it comes to leaving them. But I always have this tiny part of me that remembers how quickly time flies--five minutes ago, Keilana was spitting strained sweet potatoes at me for the first time with a great, big toothless grin and now she's getting ready for Kindergarten. My little five month old boy who could growl so well is now telling me off in full sentences as a lumbering 3 year old. I always enjoy whatever stage my kids are at and look forward with hopeful anticipation to the next stage, but part of me never forgets that I'll miss where they've been and it passes so quickly. Leaving kids after they hit the separation anxiety stage can be so awful--they cry and throw themselves on the ground or race for the door to try to stop you from leaving, and your heart breaks for them a little (or, if not for them, for the poor baby sitter you've inflicted this crying toddler upon). But then one day you leave, and they just smile and happily wave goodbye, and you're so relieved and grateful. And heartbroken. They're not sad to see you go--sometimes they're even excited to leave you.
Parenting is such a bittersweet experience. You invest so much time, energy, attention, money, love, focus and hard work into these little creatures and then, if you do it right, it becomes a process of making yourself more and more unnecessary.
Well, sort of.
I guess that's how I used to think of it. And truly, what your ultimate goal as a parent ought to be is producing independent, reliable adults who can take good care of themselves and hopefully families of their own, whether you're around or not. One thing that parenting has taught me, however, is that even if you can handle yourself and raising your children, you never outgrow the desire to have your parents there, helping you and teaching you. You never outgrow the need to know that they love you. I've found that my instinctual action when one of my babies is sick is to call my mom. She's not going to tell me anything I don't already know and she's more than a thousand miles away, so she can't do much, but just talking to her comforts me--I remember well times when I had a flu or pneumonia and she sat on my bed gently rubbing my back; I know she's been there and knows how I feel and am grateful to have her. And I've learned from my mom very clearly that no matter how far from home you may venture, no matter how grown up you may be, your mom is still your mom and wants you to let her be your mom.
The passing of my grandmother several years ago contained two important moments that taught me a lot. One I was present for, the other I was not. When my mom comforted my twin brother and I (who spent as much time in the care of our grandma as we did our mom when we were small children) at the graveside of this woman we had loved so dearly, I momentarily thought, "How selfish of us. She's just lost her mother, and we're asking for comfort from her." But then she told me a story about earlier in the week, and I understood. My grandma spent her last few weeks in the hospital--at 88, she had always been a picture of health, but once her body started to decline, it did so very rapidly. The fact that she was leaving us was obvious. She was on a morphine drip, but still in a great deal of pain and sleep did not come easily. My mom asked my grandma one evening if she would like a lullaby. She nodded, and my mom began to sing, "I Am A Child of God." The situation got to be a bit too much and my mom--a very strong woman, who I can scarcely remember ever crying--began to cry. And my grandma, 88 years old and on her death bed, reached her hand out weakly to her 51-year-old baby and said, "Its OK, you don't have to sing." In her pain and exhaustion, she still felt the need to comfort her child.
Even though we outgrow the need, in an immediate sense, of our mothers and fathers, we still long for them, and they for us, long after that magical 18th birthday. My first child was only four months old at that funeral, and so it took a while for me to really understand that there probably could've been no better comfort for my mom at that moment than having her arms wrapped securely around her babies. There is a kind of magic in being the one who can bring comfort, who can aid healing. When my infant daughter had a horrible flu at 8 months old--hot and coughing and stuffy and miserable--she wanted to be held and rocked. And somehow, while I snuggled her and attended to her, she felt better. None of her symptoms went away or lessened in my arms, but her misery subsided, and it wasn't just her that felt better. The magic of being able to heal a broken heart with open arms or an owie with a simple kiss doesn't just heal kids; it heals mom, too.
My kids deserve better from me than they've been getting lately. My self-confidence got mule-kicked out of me a while ago and with it went my patience, optimism and fun mommy self. But today, Keilana was the absolute joy I knew was hiding in there somewhere. She was an absolute delight all day, telling me jokes, reading stories with me, spinning tales about adventures to come. At bedtime, after I sang to her, she said, "Is Daddy going to play with us tomorrow 'cause its Saturday?" I nodded and she added, "That will be fun, Mom. You were fun today. When I'm a mommy when I'm bigger are you gonna play with my kids, too?"
I promise, kiddo.
Goodnight.
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