The Process of Parenthood

Every now and then something happens and sparks a thought that, most of the time, I try to avoid.  Seemingly out of thin air the thought blindsides me with such force it nearly knocks me over.  I do everything I can to hide from it, to get out of it’s way, to deny it. . .  but sometimes there is nowhere to seek shelter.  My only option is to face it.  To walk toward it.  To accept it. 

I was caught off guard this week when the thought came to me. . . the minute they were placed in my arms is the minute I had to begin letting go.

Ugh.

The thought came as I sat feeling like a giant in the tiny chairs of the elementary school library.  Ten feet away from me Chanelle sat across from a  kindergarten teacher and recited her letters, numbers, and address.  I listened as her tiny voice squeaked out answers that she knew like that back of her hand.  Ten feet away but somehow the distance felt like miles. 

I’ve never been real good at letting go.  If you’ve been visiting this space for any amount of time you know that transition is something that I do with my heels dug in deep.  I cry.  I grieve.  I hold on to what was and dread what will be.  Chanelle heading to Kindergarten is no exception.  Really?  Wasn’t sending Charlie enough?!  They want my second born, too?

They do.  They want Chanelle, too.

As soon as we stepped foot into the library the voices came from every direction. . . well, this must be Charlie’s little sister–you look like you could be his twin.  I stood back as everyone greeted her with open arms and happy smiles.  I stood back and watched as she took that step away from me and did quite okay on her own, thankyouverymuch.  I stood back and watched as she smiled her shy smile.  I sat back and watched as her wings spread just a little bit wider.

Ah, parenthood.  The active, ongoing, process of letting go. 

I have a love/hate relationship with this letting go thing.  On the front side of it I hate it, dread it, resist it, and live with a perpetual lump in my throat.  However, on the back side of it I see the joy in it.  I see the smiles on their faces as they make their own way.  I watch as they grow in confidence and realize how capable they really are. 

And so what do I do?  I swallow down that lump.  I smile with them.  I celebrate with them.  I loosen my grip just a tiny bit more so that they know how much I believe in them.

And I watch them fly. 

(and then I go into my bedroom, close the door. . . and cry.)

What can I say?  This mama is far from perfect.

Have a wonderful weekend, Friends!