Jan’s insightful and beautiful philosophy about motherhood leaves me torn.
My head tells me to raise independent children who grow up to “love other people more than me,” but my selfish heart tugs in the other direction. I struggle with the “letting go” part of parenthood. I cry at milestones and do too much for Bubbe and Skootch every day in between.
Come to think of it, such ambivalence probably explains why I still make my 10 year-old’s bed and wipe my 6 year-old’s backside.
Aah, the conundrum that is a mother’s love. Happy Valentine’s Day!
I was never one of those moms who grieved their kids growing up. I thought it was great.
I didn’t want them to be babies forever. Or to be toddling around the house indefinitely. I didn’t want to stand on the sidelines of wet soccer fields with a cold cup of coffee watching confused kids kick the ball to each other on Saturday mornings that seemed to last for months. I liked being the mother of little kids but only because of its impermanence.
I love that my kids are grown up. And I say that without the least bit of angst.
Oh, I look back and I remember them as little kids. How I carried them everywhere, how I stroked their cheeks to calm them, laid on the couch with their little selves asleep on my chest, sang to them songs I made up and that no one else…
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Red Said What? 