You just left my work from home office. It’s senior skip day, and you’ve spent the
day running around with your friends, hiking and hot tubbing and eating. You made a point of sitting down across from
me and chatting for a few minutes, and my heart is pretty full. We talked about Lent and our dog, bacon and weed,
girls and naps. These opportunities are
vanishingly infrequent, between your school and sports’ schedule, and my job
and parenting the other littles, one on one time for us is pretty rare. I want to clutch it hard these days, because
I know it is fleeting and I further know that you probably won’t call me much
next year. I also know that you and I
connect easily and joyfully on these rare occasions. The noise and chaos of our big family gets in
the way almost always, but when it’s just us, it’s pretty cool.
I texted with your big sister last night about senior skip
day. I couldn’t remember how it went,
and I wanted her to remind me. It
occurred to me, though, that it has been several days since she and I had
chatted. But she calls occasionally, and
we are in her college town regularly for the little girls’ sports. We took her out to lunch less than a week
ago. She was home for your sister’s
birthday just a few weeks ago. She stays
connected more effortlessly than I suspect you will. It scares me.
This morning, your younger sister, who had been on an extended
field trip with friends all day yesterday and came home after I was in bed,
left without saying goodbye. It made me
cry. Sometimes I feel like such a
throwaway member of this family—necessary only for permission slips and meals and rides
and cash. And, by high school, pretty much just cash.
Earlier this week, your team was defeated in the regional
final leading up to the state basketball tournament. You were devastated. As the final seconds ticked away, I told your
dad that we needed to stay. “Why?” he
asked, “Sam never wants us around.”
“We just need to this time,” I assured him, confident my mama
radar was right and you would need our presence, even if you ignored us. After the game, and after a long, long wait during
which I know your coaches and teammates consoled one another, especially you
seniors, you emerged from the locker room with your eyes roaming the remaining
crowd of students and parents. I saw the
flicker of relief in your eyes when you spied us, even though it took you
awhile to approach us as you talked to friends and teammates. Your hug was stiff, but you lingered. My attempts at conversation were met with
monosyllabic replies, so eventually I just fell silent. I sensed that you needed me near, so I
stayed. You didn’t need my hugs or my
words, but you needed me, and that was enough.
I tell you all these little vignettes only because I want to
make sure you understand how finely tuned all of my senses are to you and your
siblings. I once read that the road to
motherhood is a one way street, and I understand that now more than ever as you grow up and
away from me. There is
never a moment when some part of me isn’t straining toward you, longing for
your nearness, craving your smiles and connection to you.
So, next year, when you build your life outside of my home and
span of control, remember that, and call me once in awhile.
Check in and tell me about your life.
I will always be interested. I
will always be thinking of you and wishing we were together. I’ll always want to hear about your naps and
treats, your classes and your loves. Before
you go, call your mother!
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