When I was preparing for Motherhood, and while my precious daughter grew inside my belly, I was given advice here and there on what awaited me. Mostly people told me of the abounding joy I had in store, and naturally glazed over the unbearable sacrifices of sleep and sanity. I now understand why they mostly only gently alluded to the aggravations of being a mom. After all, what sane woman would commit to such a job if not fully aware of the positive payoff she’d also receive? Not many.
Regardless, however vague the descriptions of the journey ahead, I did receive some forewarning of things like sleep deprivation, teething, and tantrums. There might have even been some mention of the pain a mommy would feel in her heart as she watched her tiny baby grow bigger, and fought the emotional roller coaster that is born with the passage of time.
But I’m not certain they warned me how hard it would be to let go, to let the one you love grow, and move on to that next step in life. Even if they did, I don’t suppose it would have stuck. Some of the hardest things in life are not understood until you stand in the middle of them, trembling in trepidation.
I found myself recently in a group with two other women present, and we began to chat about our children as ladies tend to do. I shared with them the emotions that coursed through my every fiber as I found myself entering a new stage with my youngest child.
Just that morning I had held my toddler against my chest, and I had marveled at her beauty. I had combed my fingers through her flaxen locks, and I had felt the turmoil of my upcoming decision. As I had stared, transfixed at my nursing daughter, I knew in my heart that our time of breastfeeding was coming to an end, and I tried to hold on to the contentment I felt right at that moment as I held her in my arms.
My friend shared the struggles of the past week. School had started, and she had taken her eldest daughter for her first day, her first day as a middle schooler. Her face had changed as she recounted the memory of seeing her baby, or rather her big girl walk inside. The emotional weight of the moment was like a veil as it covered her tear-filled eyes with the love and pride that a parent feels.
Our other friend understood too well, and she shared also of taking her own daughter to school. As the reality of her baby starting college invaded her tender emotions, she helped move boxes into a new dorm room. The busy work of settling in helped to consume her mind lest her heart be broken.
As we sat, three mothers, each of us close to tears, I realized our kinship of motherly pride versus pain. Letting go was not easy no matter the stage or situation. Despite age or circumstance the love was the same.
On the last morning of nursing my daughter I had held her a little closer, savoring that connection. Then as her father walked by she had pulled away, climbed from my lap, and gone to his side to be cuddled by him. As I left for work and she hugged me goodbye I knew she understood my words of comfort, and she did not cry as I walked away. I knew it was time, and she would be fine. I could let go.
As my friend had watched her daughter walk into the school with her backpack slung over one shoulder like a certified middle schooler, pride replaced all else, and she let go.
When my friend went to leave the campus at the end of the day, and her college-aged daughter began to cry, she comforted her stating, “no tears now!” And as she watched her girl walk back in the dorms she cried enough tears for them both. Yet slowly and surely she let her go.
I have decided motherhood is one of the most difficult things I’ve ever encountered, yet simultaneously the most rewarding. I am also learning that watching my babies grow, and letting them go into the next perfect plan the good Lord has for their lives is one of the hardest challenges I’ve ever known.
It’s a mystery how you can feel such excitement and pride for new milestones and achievements, while also grieving change and slightly fearing the start of new beginnings.
I have decided mothers are made of 50% steel, 45% jello, and 5% hopeless weeping. They are the weakest, towering pillar of strength you’ll ever encounter. And somehow the combination is perfect, a mix of sensitivity and grit to raise the next generation.
Perhaps no one tells you how hard it is to raise babies, and then let them fly with their own two wings because you wouldn’t believe them. You have to love before you can let go, and that’s the one thing every mother must learn on her own. Even though, in this part of it, she is not alone.