Letting Go

My oldest child graduated from high school on June 7. “Pomp and Circumstance” played as he and the other 350 plus students marched across the football field. A moment, as a mother, you can only imagine as some faint, far distant event, until it is actually happening. Of course you want it, you expect it. And then, your life with that child replays in fast, grainy snapshots, as he prepares to leave home.

A brief glimpse as your baby is born, wrinkled and screaming, until he is placed in the crook of your welcoming arm and guided to your nurturing breast. The sleepless nights and endless diapers are a blur. The first wobbly steps, the garbled attempts at words. Reading stories, many repeatedly, singing off-key, often made-up lullabies. Filling sippy cups and worrying about whether snacks are healthy enough. Trips to the park, interacting with other children, potty training. Baby gym classes, playgroup meet-ups, wondering if it’s okay that he still climbs into your bed at night. Secretly wishing that the tiny, contented sigh he releases as he snuggles up against you in the wee hours, could be suspended in time.

Letting him go to preschool and wishing he missed you, even just a little, while he was there. Kindergarten, reading Bob books, tying his shoe. Imaginary play, dressing up in superhero capes and creating worlds with Legos. Action figure, not dolls, Mom! Enduring school music programs that always included recorder versions of Hot Cross Buns. Elementary school and a big yellow bus and still needing his mom but less than before. Broken bones and stitches, and then the worst pain, teasing on the playground.

Middle school angst--for you and for him. Worrying at how big these hallways are compared to grade school. Knowing he will be physically and emotionally changing in ways you can’t stop and the symptoms of which you can’t begin to soothe. Remembering the agony of being 13 and knowing he must experience it for himself. Trying to loosen the apron strings he is demanding that you loosen and struggling to see him as the growing young man he is becoming and not the tow-headed toddler begging for another story.

High school. Really?? How did these children grow beards and get deep voices and become taller than you? Dances and dates and heartache. Crazy colored hair, punk rock band practice at your house and various extra kids raiding your pantry. GPA’s, test scores, college applications, and all this time, growing up. Preparing to leave. Four years, you think to yourself. Four years is so long! Just treasure it. And you try to but it goes by so fast. And suddenly, “Pomp and Circumstance” is playing and you are in the stadium stands and your child is in a cap and gown and is on his way out.

And now that four years have somehow seemingly defied increments of 365 long days, you must cling to a three-month summer. You still have three months until he leaves for college. You comfort yourself with how long three months is. But you know you aren’t fooling anyone, even yourself. Because somehow 18 years have passed and you don’t know where they went or how they slipped passed you. Three months is just a moment.

I sit here with now less than a month until my oldest child leaves for college. He can’t wait. He can barely mark the time between now and then. Until, in his mind, his life starts. New. Fresh. As an adult. On his own.

I can’t help but be excited for him. But I can’t help also feeling a little sad. That anti-climactic sad that comes at the end of something great. I’ve done my job. He’s on his own now. And I’m so proud! I try to pull him close for a hug now, and he grudgingly obliges. It’s okay, it’s how it’s supposed to be. But as I help him gather what he needs for his dorm room, the room that will be his home starting September 21, I can’t help wishing we could go back to that, tiny, contented sigh as he snuggled up to me in the wee hours.