There’s this rawness that happens to people when they become parents. Emotions live on the surface: yours and your child’s. It’s all about immediacy. You spend about 18 years—give or take—showing your offspring a good time with holidays, birthdays, vacations, play dates and field trips. You worry, push and prod. You shop, cook and nurture. Just being at home can be joyous. My daughters and I danced and laughed and sang together, a lot. It was just the three of us for many years so we made our own fun, but we loved it when the rest of my family was around, or with their father’s family. His beloved mother was a wonderful cook and dinner party organizer. Traditions abound in both our families. And when the kids were all young it was wonderful.
We left the baggage at the door and lived happily with our kids –who needed us—rambling around at our feet, and then knees. Then they became teenagers. But they were still there. At last they are out of the house, in college or off on another growth oriented activity (we hope), and then they are on to their own lives.
And then we are alone again.
A friend is newly pregnant and watching her going through all the early dreads and hopes, I am taken back to those days in a flash: The nausea, the light headed-ness; the fear, the hunger, and the bizarre need to wear sweatpants even before showing. And let us not forget the joy of those fashion-less hand-me-down blousy tops; sadly this was before all the chic designs now available. But I was whole, and solid. Like I’d been meant for this all my crazy, unhinged life.
I feel weightless without my children now, as if I could float into oblivion. I always knew they’d grounded me, both in the present and in my life. They still give my life meaning. And even though, due to our high tech lives, we are able to keep in really good contact, I miss them horribly.
