Learning to Let Go of My Children

When I’m not ready to do so…

Why do we do it? What compels us to give our bodies away to the promise of a child, a baby? As a woman the comprehension of what transpired within the deepest confines of my body didn’t manifest the truth of what birthing this child would bring.

We give our hearts away to the baby long before they enter the world, and brought forth as squalling, red, splotchy being only grabs at our love and our need to protect them from the cold, the light, and the barrage of sound that must drum into their sensitive ears. Mother and father both stand watch and fall in love with their child.

Theirs.

We don’t understand the ebb and flow that’s already begun the minute they’re born; the drive to separate from us, to leave us, to become their own. The realization sparks one day whether it is our child crawling away from us, leaning toward another person to be held by them rather than remaining safely held by our arms or taking steps out of our reach.

Years spool out, and we lull ourselves into a complacency that does not believe our baby will want to leave us one day. On their first day of school, we blink away our tears as we wave at the bus that carries our hearts away. Every first day of school hurt me, as I had grown used to having them home for summer.

My son’s favorite cat with his soccer ball. 2015.

The years took them further away with sleepovers, dances, best friends, boyfriends and girlfriends and driver’s licenses that drove them to independence. Our babies came back when their hearts had been broken, and we cooed and gave them lullabies in the form of just baked cookies, midnight talks so akin to those early midnight feedings, and holding them or sitting close by.

We told them they could do anything, be whatever they wanted, and maybe a part of us thought that meant staying near us, confiding in us, and pouring the love into us that we thoughtlessly and wondrously lavished in them.

Who knew the pain of their last day at home? We drive them to their college or the Air Force or to a city far away, knowing our children must take faltering steps forward to fully be born, and we still push and labor. But now we must hide our tears and sadness, knowing they draw strength from our own wavering resilience as we let them leave us.

I have cried many times as my three children left me behind. But today felt akin to retirement without my tacit approval. My last baby stepped into his university’s arena as an undergraduate for the last time.

He wore the dress shirt we bought together yesterday under his black robe, and I took in the celebratory air, counting his happiness and my family’s typical gathering at these important exclamation points as good, convivial fun. So while we strained to find him among the thousands of black caps and gowns, why did I start to cry?

He left today. As the class of 2022 moved their tassels to the other side, I saw him move with certainty toward his life as a man. A job and a wedding await him later this summer, and I see how his beautiful fiancé is the most important woman in his life. It must be this way. This is what we want our children to do after all.

We want them to leave, not knowing the sharp pain that awaits us when it happens and they’re gone. Our lives will never be the same, but I think when the last one leaves for good, we’re stunned by the space left behind.

A close-up (as close as I dare) of two of my kids at the beach years ago.

No hand to hold, no back to burp and rock. No scratches to kiss or stories to read. His whole life stands in front of him now, as scary for him as it was for us, and yet we still encourage and pray and smile, even while our hearts crumble just a little bit more.

I love you little one. You’re so much taller than I am now, and your sister with two children of her own and your other sister who is carrying a baby within her both tell me you are ready. They admire your solid confidence. Your humor. And I know my job of getting you to this point is complete.

I’m just not so sure my heart is ready for this sweet one.

I must relinquish you to the world and your life. I will diminish and become lesser. Go into your life my little boy. I’ll still be here. And I honestly hope you don’t need to look back at me too much. Go forward and embrace your wife and life, because it’s meant to be this way.

I just didn’t think letting go would be quite so heart rending. I’m just missing my baby tonight. I love you so much, my boy. Be well.