8:29pm, Monday
12 hours until the school year begins!
(not sure whether to cheer or cry)
* * * * * * *
At long last, summer vacation has come to a close.
Our sons are in bed, nervously awaiting new beginnings. They've been fed, bathed, dressed, brushed, storied, tucked in, kissed and cuddled. Cups of water at their bedside, nightlight turned on.
Freshly laundered, brand-new school clothes are neatly folded and stacked on the dresser, ready to go. Identical pairs of handsome beige washable sporty shoes are lined up side by side with brand new white-as-snow socks.
Each boy has his own unique bag of school supplies waiting by the front door, filled as requested by their schools.
For the 6 year old, a bag containing: markers, colored pencils, composition journals, glue, blank paper and the precious three-inch Pink Pearl erasers which we finally found after searching five different stores... because it was crucial to my son to buy everything on the teacher's list *exactly* as she'd asked for it. (Only brand name would do.)
For the 4 year old, a bag of comfort: a new pillow with brightly colored pillow case, crib sheet and soft blanket all covered with plush trucks and cars... just in case he decides that he'd like to take a nap now that he will be attending "full day" preschool for big boys.
Full day school.
Wow.
Starting tomorrow, I'm going to have two sons in school from 8:30am until 3:15pm.
I don't even know how to feel about that... wistful? lonely? elated? free?
...ambivalent.
My heart hurts more than I had anticipated - thinking about how much I am going to miss my sons, at least at first.
It's true that they drive me up the wall with their incessant fighting and caterwauling. I'm not going to lie, I won't miss that part at all.
Today though, I got a tiny taste of how quiet my new schedule will be.
This afternoon my husband took our sons to see part of a baseball game, leaving me with my precious daughter who had fallen fast asleep.
Recognizing the opportunity to get stuff done, I didn't take much time at first to think about the sudden quiet space in our home. I bustled around without ceasing for a moment, racing to do as many chores as I could until she woke from her nap so that we could go to the grocery store.
Here is what I accomplished in a single hour with no children to wrangle:
Raked, swept and watered the front lawn
Collected and took out all of the trash in the house
Did one load of laundry and folded another
Swept the entire house
Cleaned one bathroom
Refilled a prescription (over the phone)
Responded to emails
Created a detailed shopping list
Remembered to locate my purse, keys, diaper bag AND cell phone BEFORE leaving the house!
By the time my daughter awakened from her nap and we set off to purchase food for school lunches, I was feeling like pretty hot stuff for having accomplished something tangible within a measurable span of time.
However, I noticed a downside to that remarkably productive hour:
I felt lonely. I had nobody to talk to. Nobody to sing to. Nobody to listen to.
I started to cycle through thoughts and worries in my mind.
I missed my boys. I wondered how they were doing.
I felt a little bored.
* * * * * * *
Go ahead and call me on it, it's true -
I've been complaining for weeks about how desperate I am to have a little space and some quiet time... and now that I finally have some, I'm whining about how much I miss my children.
Will I *ever* be satisfied? Fully contented with my situation?
Hard to say.
Is any mother?
* * * * * * *
It turns out that mothering is something like being a woman:
It's complex, rich and juicy... and just when you think you've got it somewhat figured out, you don't. Because the role is always evolving.
Part of being a mother is learning how to set your children free and send them forth into the world to grow and change in important ways that one mother alone cannot personally orchestrate.
Yet, another part of being a mother is yearning deeply to be with and care for your own children at all times... and feeling uncomfortable when you are physically separated from them.
(This may be biologically wired into the female body, so that we won't forget to nurture and protect our young until they are at last old enough to fend for themselves.)
This duality of desire is potent, magnetic.
I want them to go, yet I want them to stay. I love them, yet they drive me crazy. I need my own space, yet in their absence my space feels hollow.
* * * * * * *
On the bright side, it was quite lovely spending a little time with only my daughter. She and I talked a lot as we drove and grocery shopped together, and without her brothers around to fill up the air with their cacophony she had quite a lot to say.
We talked about stickers, princesses, rain, potty training, lunch and how big she is getting.
Yet, one of her most pressing questions struck poignantly, as it reflected my own mood exactly.
"Mommee, where my brudders? I wan my brudders. I wan play wid my brudders."
"Sweetie, your brothers are going to start school tomorrow. In just one year, you will be old enough to go to school too. Will you be ready?"
She nodded gravely and gazed deeply into my eyes.
"I wan frens mommee." (I want friends, Mommy) "I wan play my frens."
"I know you do," I smiled. "I know you are ready for school and friends. Just one more year, honey."
One more year. Wow.
One more year before all of this ends - this insane (magnificent) chapter of life that started nearly seven years ago and changed every single thing.
One more year before I gently give back the role of stay-at-home mother which I both love and hate, and edge back into the wide world around me.
No more diapers or diaper bag. No more morning naps. No more stroller.
No more baby talk. No more baby food. No more baby teeth.
No more pregnancies and maternity clothes (yay!)
No more feedings in the middle of the night. No more colic.
No more soft baby scent. No more tiny little hands and feet to kiss.
No more ultrasounds, c-section worries, placenta previas.
No more baby names. No more 4-D images from the womb.
No person but me will ever live inside my body again.
This is both the most wonderful thing to happen to me in years, and also the saddest thing.
* * * * * * *
When I was burly-pregnant with our eldest child, around eight months along and looking like a giant panda (as a dear friend of mine likes to say) my husband and I stopped in to give a rent check to my mother's neighbor, whose guest house we were occupying until our own house sold.
A sad woman in her sixties whose husband had just passed away, my mother's neighbor was quite melancholy and spent most of her days chain-smoking in dark rooms and mourning her recent loss. Estranged from her two children, she didn't feel too great about life.
I shifted my weight wearily as my stomach tightened in another Braxton-Hicks contraction, exhausted and sweaty in the summertime heat. My husband put his hand on my back to steady me.
The woman turned and fixed her eyes intently upon my belly.
"Do you know how lucky you are? You have LIFE in there. You are carrying LIFE. You are participating in a miracle.
I wish that just once I could feel that again."
Sighing, she sat down heavily.
"It's such a blessing, and then it's over. Before you know it, they've grown up and gone away. They've changed." Her face clouded over.
* * * * * * *
At the time, I felt a little bit freaked out by her intensity. I also couldn't imagine *anyone* feeling remotely jealous of what I was experiencing at that moment - heaviness, heat, weariness, pain, aching and apprehension about childbirth.
I made an excuse to leave fairly quickly and walked over to my mother's house to rest my swollen feet.
More than six years later though,
I get it.
She was right. Carrying life WAS a miracle. I was so lucky to participate in that sacred process.
I am amazingly lucky every day that I get to spend with these three children. My husband and I have been so blessed.
Saying goodbye to them then, tomorrow morning, as my boys head off into their respective schools and spheres with their own teachers, friends and inner world...
Urging them to feel excited and joyous about growing up...
Celebrating as they nervously separate themselves from me...
Watching as my children walk further down their own paths, away from mine...
It's so beautiful; so magical;
so heartbreaking.
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