I was a cliche, a caricature, a tale as old as time. I was that perspiring cartoon cat chewing down her nails like a wood chipper watching the second hand stutter around the clock like a sledgehammer–boom, boom, BOOM–waiting for time to run out.
You see, this was the summer of the “Off to College” countdown for my oldest daughter. She actually flew from the nest, her college is so stinking far away. If my memory of physics serves me correctly, a light year equals eleven hundred miles. Oh wait, that’s what my heart told me when it saw the distance to Miami. My brain was stuck in the groove reminding me I was about to exit my sweet spot of motherhood.
I am a good mother—not to be confused with a perfect mother—but sweet baby booties, the infant years with my two nearly killed me. In a past life, I worked through the horrors and stress of a trauma unit, yet it was my splendid first-born who had me on the floor crying in the fetal position of surrender. She had colic and she adamantly screamed about it . . . for an average of four hours a day. And yes, I timed it as a my own little sanity check.
Don’t get me wrong, I relished the joys dished out by my two healthy daughters born two and a half years apart: the smiles, the laughter, the hugs, the “firsts,” but the mundane neediness was just so much. The day-to-day rinse and repeat of feeding, diapering, clothing, bathing, and putting to bed sapped the spring of my being in a way, that while not unique, is not something all mothers experience. You know those women who must scoop up and snuffle every baby they see? Yeah, I’m good with just oohing and ahhing outside the splash zone.
But each mother should be handed an embroidered pillow upon delivery that reads “Don’t Despair Over any One Moment of Motherhood Because It’s a Fluid Time-Warp Sand Dune That Changes and Morphs Each and Every Day One Grain of Sand at a Time.” Granted, it would be a large pillow, but you can’t put a word count on truth.
My psyche improved as my girls could reason and read, talk in complete, decipherable sentences, and feed themselves. As they learned to run, jump, and swim like competent little humans, I relaxed my toddler-watch wariness.
In fact, each step of independence they took away from me made me a happier mother. With the absence of tantrums and diaper bags weighing me down, I loved to explore and travel with them. I reveled as they discovered their talents and personalities. I volunteered to give them the activities and opportunities that would help them blossom into their best possible selves.
I really hit my stride as the mother of teenagers. It was . . . is my sweet spot. I find the bustle and commotion invigorating. I love the friends, the events, the deep heart-to-heart talks, the companionship, and the exploration. Contrary to popular mythology, teens really aren’t the devil. They are complex, interesting creatures simultaneously learning about themselves and the world with equal parts wonder, joy, skepticism, and despair. They are your heart, but so much more and better than you could have imagined. Of course the “so much more” also encompasses slamming doors, eye rolls, and sharp words, but how would you know when you’re on the mountaintop without the valleys? The rough patches are worth it to be center stage for the best show ever. And hey, the teen years make me crave the days when I could protect them with a bumper guard on the coffee table. There is no bubble wrap for sex, drugs, alcohol, driving, disappointment, and broken hearts. Perspective is everything.
And speaking of perspective, mine has changed again, except this time with the force of a brutal sandstorm rather than the steady trickle of sand through an hour glass. My daughter left for college a week ago and my days of having my chicks come to roost every night under one roof are gone. Sure she will come home again, but both feet will never be planted in childhood again, that spell is broken. The nuclear bubble of our “home team” is forever changed because she is a free agent branching out from my constant supervision and coaching. I am sidelined to being the whisper in the back of her head and praying that I used my eighteen years with her wisely.
But you know what? That’s okay and how it should be. And I’ve learned during this week that while I feel like my role as her mother has drastically changed, from her point of view, maybe it hasn’t. As mothers we can feel like we are at the centers of our kids’ lives because they are on the center stage in ours, but just remember back to your own teen years and you’ll realize that’s not so true. Maybe, just maybe, her crossing that stage for her diploma was not about leaving me behind, but about continuing on the path she has set for herself. This truth gives me hope that my sweet spot is not behind me, but will be expanding in new ways for years to come.
Ellen
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