In just a few days, my son will walk to the front door with his final box under his arm. He may ask if I want the house key back, I’ll tell him to keep it. He’ll stand there for a moment, because he will know that I will require one more hug. One last hug. Not the final last hug I’ll ever give him, of course, but the final one where he comes back home after whatever he’s gone and done for the day.
And I will hold on longer than I normally do. And he will feel my body tremor as I cry. I will have told myself beforehand to keep it together, Beth, to not cry in front of him, to just hold it in until the door clicks shut, that my lands, you’re literally going to see him in just a few days. But I won’t be able to stop myself. And, because he has put up with my over-the-top emotionality for his entire life, he will not push me away.
And then he will walk out the door, for the last time as a member of this household, and get in his car and drive to his new apartment twenty minutes away.
I have been bracing for this moment for…well…I was going to say for four months, when he came home early from college (thanks, covid) and moved back in until his next steps fell into place. We knew this day was coming, literally, because we gave him four months to find work and a place to live (not our idea, but a counselor-affirmed notion, though one I railed against inwardly every moment…but that’s another story probably not for another time).
But back to me bracing. Let’s be honest, shall we? I haven’t been bracing for simply four months.
I’ve been bracing for both of my children to be on their own since April 1, 1996, when I found out I was pregnant with my daughter.
For twenty-four-and-a-half years, I’ve been – in the back of my mind and in the recesses of my heart – very aware that my job was to raise them to let them go.
I was best at parenting from about zero to ten…the years when it’s culturally acceptable for a mother to hover and worry and protect and even control just a touch.
The years on the downslope of this mountain – where I was supposed to be loosening my grip – have been painful and wonky and, to be vulnerable, at times very unhealthy on my part. For reasons I understand and some I don’t, I have held on to my children too tightly and too long.
When my children and I left our family home almost nine years ago and moved into what very quickly turned into our refuge, I told them, “This home will always be your home….wherever I am will be your home.”
I meant those words then. And I’d say them again now. But I’m not sure they are true because that’s not how life works.
So I’ve been bracing.
I’ve heard it said – and I apologize for how crass this is but – that a person who is drunk is more likely to survive a car accident because they don’t have the instinct to tense up, to brace themselves. It’s the ever-aware bracing ones who wind up the most hurt.
Did I think bracing, holding on more tightly, making lists, nagging, obsessing, suggesting, asking, directing, controlling…did I think any of that would be helpful? Would slow down time? Would endear anyone else in my home more to my heart?
Did I think it would keep the inevitable at bay?
I’m not sure I was thinking about any of that. I’m not sure frankly that I’ve been in my right mind.
I told a friend that I felt like I was kicking my son out into the middle of a zombie apocalypse. Oh, and that every time I looked at him, I saw him as an 8-year-old with those big eyes looking up at me, asking why he couldn’t stay.
When I’ve been sad in my life, I have tended to willingly wallow in it, to grieve as fully as I can. One way for me is through music, and I’ve had Christa Wells’ song Butterfly on repeat…rewinding and replaying this line over and over…singing along…crying along…
…I would be lying to /
pretend I want to lose /
having you with me /
I want you with me, yes I do
I asked that same friend, through tears, how am I supposed to live the rest of my life not seeing his sweet face every day anymore? She didn’t answer because she doesn’t know.
I’m planning to write my son a letter sometime in the next day or two. I can’t tell him most of this. He wouldn’t understand. And he’d probably think I’m just being ridiculous. But I’ll say other things, things I’ve said before, maybe some things I feel I’ve forgotten, as if I’m running alongside an in-motion train, waving and yelling a final word or two of instruction or love.
How do you just stop mothering after twenty-four-and-a-half years of mothering?
My counselor, my husband, my friends have all said, “You’re not done being their mother, Beth.” (I tend to think in extremes.)
But how will I go on? Really. I’m asking.
I have a life outside of those two. I have a sweet husband. I have work I love. I have a home. I have friends. I have parents and siblings. I have stepchildren and in-law-children and a grandbaby with two more on the way.
But I’ve never loved anyone like I love Sara and Jack. And it’s going to take me some time to downshift, to step back, to let him live his own life the way he wants to live it, in his own rhythms and timing and maybe even long patches of quietness.
And so I’ll hug him standing in our front hallway. And he’ll walk out. And I’ll walk downstairs to his bedroom, and see it empty for the first time in nine years, and I will cry, more than likely, inconsolably for a few moments.
And then, somehow, I don’t know how, I’ll keep going.
I don’t even know where to begin this comment. I feel like I could write you a book about this subject! I know this pain all too well. I have 6 children, only one of whom is still at home. He has special needs and will need care his whole life.
Four years ago, 2 of my children left home together. They moved cross country to live with their oldest sister and her family. It was a great opportunity for them and I was glad for them to have it. But…. In the weeks leading up to their move I cried myself to sleep many nights. I was truly dreading the day of their departure. It was very hard on one of their other siblings too. She was living at home at the time and felt the loss of their company deeply.
They day they left, once I was alone in the house late in the morning, I cried like I have never cried. I had a panic attack. The intensity of my grief surprised me. It also showed me I had been way too attached to them. Being in a very hard marriage, my adult and almost adult children had been my companions and friends. But even before they left, I KNEW in my heart that their leaving would be a Very good and needed thing for them. Over time I have come to see that though He knew it would hurt me very much, God knew I needed for them to go. And I remind myself of this truth even now on the hard days. Long story. But yes, I know this pain!!!
I can tell you that it can hurt badly for quite awhile. Our identity as Mom is deep and our children leaving home ushers us into a whole new life. A life we knew was coming but hoped would not. BUT, 4 years into this now is Is easier. Most days I am totally ok. I am happy for how all of my children’s lives are moving on.
Honestly, even now I still have moments when I am in denial, maybe? I feel like. “I cannot believe they left me!” It’s like the shock of the break is still there. And yet, this is what children do! We know this! But it doesn’t seem to matter, does it?
I really let go and let them have their space these first several years, with all of my kids. Now, slowly, we are getting closer. They have been through a lot of experiences, all of my children, since leaving home. Some of these experiences have been unpleasant, painful and very difficult. I pray from afar and I don’t pry. I see how they are maturing and how necessary it is for them to truly be on their own and have the freedom to be who they are, live their own lives and learn what they need to learn. I am glad for each one of them. It is a continual learning of self denial and ever deepening realization that they are not Mine. They are their own, and they are God’s. He’s got them. AND He’s got us Moms, too. Jesus’ Mother Mary knows the pain of loss and I turn to her more and more as the years go by. I ask her to mother them for me. I know this is a prayer that God hears.
I will keep you in my prayers, Elisabeth! You will be okay but it can be a rough ride.Be kind to yourself and patient with yourself. This IS a true loss. But it is also a new beginning. Try to focus on being happy and excited for them. God’s got YOU. and your children. You. Are NEVER Alone.
Amy, thank you for sharing your story with me, and these words of encouragement and empathy.
(((((((( hugs )))))))
Beautifully written, and reminds me we all have to be “about our Father’s business”.
blessings Elizabeth
((((((( more hugs ))))))
Thank you, Michelle. And yes, what a good way of looking at it.
You are always such an encourager for others and your posts provide inspiration to so many traveling through a difficult time. Thank you! Having a daughter and a son who are the greatest blessings ever, I emphasize greatly. Prayers that His peace surrounds you and guides you in the coming time. One step at a time…you will get through and the joy of the Lord will be your strength.
Thank you so much for these kinds words, Gia.