The reason I narrowly avoided choking up in the first place began with the following exchange:
Chad: “This is the last boat ride of the season.” (Note: This is always a bit of a sad statement to me, even in years less momentous than this one).
Me: “Yep. It’s officially the end of our summer. And this is a big one. It’s the last one with all five of our babies under one roof.” And then I didn’t choke up because I immediately realized that this wasn’t even true. Grace will still live under our roof next summer, and that will be the last one. I won’t cry much next summer, of that I’m pretty certain. But as for the end of this second to last lake season with all five kids living at home, I’m not crying.
And she wasn’t even with us. As the years have passed, we see less and less of Grace as it is. She is gone a lot, and she has gradually begun missing more and more things on a fairly regular basis. She only makes it home for family dinners about twice a week. (This fall, there have really only been about two per week to miss). She worked a lot this summer—missing many weekends with us at the lake already. Travel volleyball took her away from us countless weekends over the last two winters (though almost always Chad or I accompanied her). She has always been a social and busy girl, spending many nights away at friends’ homes. She can drive herself, of course—a fact I celebrated when it first happened. She was so busy and in demand; finally being freed from the role of her chauffeur felt dreamily liberating. Except now, when I’m not missing those days with her beside me in the front seat, or behind me giggling with girlfriends or siblings, or buckled securely and safely into a car seat shrieking indignantly about being separated from me for even a moment, or across from me on a boat for the last boat ride of the season. Not crying.
Most times, I don’t even think much about Grace not being with us. She joins us for holidays or major events, or when I (infrequently) insist. Both Chad and I were raised by pragmatic parents who allowed our freedoms to stretch as high school progressed, and I want to extend this same gift of guilt-free growing up and away to my children. I’m glad Grace has a busy and active social and extracurricular life, and though I miss her deeply at times, it’s the right course of things. I think the transition next year will in fact be eased by the fact that we already see so little of her. Not crying.
It’s only every once in awhile that I stop short and feel in my gut the absence of her. Raising teenagers has taught me to appreciate the family times that occur increasingly less regularly, but not to insist upon them too often. Sometimes, though, I feel like the toddler with a new baby sister. I just want to clutch Grace and kiss her and love on her and try and carry her almost-as-big-as-me self around until, unless there is intervention from my wiser grown-up self, I smother her with my hugs and bruise her with my kisses. Not crying.
It was cold on the boat this weekend. The sun was shining, but it is always colder on the water, so I had dressed warmly. My youngest didn’t heed my warnings, however, and came down in just a t-shirt and pants. He took his shoes off immediately upon boarding the boat, as is his habit. He grew chilly once we started moving, however, and clamored eagerly onto the seat next to me and the puppy. (Even though in dog years, she has already passed into the teen years, Penny still can’t get enough of me, especially, for some reason, at the lake. Just one more reason why she will always be in contention for favorite child). It was impossible not to notice the longing Clay’s snuggles awoke in me. In addition to the automatic dart of sweetness that accompanies a beloved child burrowing into your lap, I couldn’t help but wonder when the last time my sweet Gracie had curled up next to me with such unselfconscious affection. It has surely been years. Not crying.
I snapped this picture of my newest teenager as we were getting ready to head out on the water. She was always my most physically affectionate child, insisting upon lap sitting and hand holding well past what most of her peers and older siblings desired. Even though by the time she hit these growing away years, I was already somewhat accustomed to the distance she would likely put between us, it still ached a little bit to know we would never return to that easy physicality of a mother and her young children. Something about this one, so tall and strong and beautiful, made me miss Grace even more. (And the butterfly metaphor is just too heavy handed, even for me). Not crying.
Later, when Clay had swapped my lap for a chance to steer the boat from his dad’s lap, Lucy leapt to take his place at my side. My littles have become so dear these last few years as my teens pull away and ready themselves to leave my nest. The youngest two are still so innocent and receptive of my affection. One morning recently they had a good natured argument about who could get the most goodbye kisses, following me out to the car to snatch just one more as I prepared to drive to work. It’s all so poignant and prone to making me not cry. It’s just boat rides and chilly fall day cuddles. It’s just a big family with big kids and little kids and a mom wishing she could hold onto hot summer days just a little bit longer. It’s just a teenager who’d rather sleep in at home than hang out on a cold lake with her family for the last time in a second to last season. I’m not crying, you’re crying.
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