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 heard. Our private songs.
I remember all that and am glad for that time. But I don’t miss it.
I wanted them to grow up into people. Strong, smart, decent people. I wanted them to have their own lives that didn’t involve me. I wanted other people to love them. I wanted them to love other people more than me.
I don’t understand mothers who grieve every step of their children’s growing up. I don’t get the tears at the kindergarten door or the angst at the driver’s license test. The weeping at graduation baffles me. The whole point of being a parent is to raise kids, not keep them as pets.
To those moms who mourn every torn teddy bear stowed in the attic, I say this: each time of life is wonderful in its own way. No time is more precious than another.
Life is a necklace with a lot of beautiful beads.