In a meeting the other day, several moms of young children were, well, complaining about the things mothers of young children tend to complain about: the sometimes excruciating boredom of playing dollies, the difficulty of potty-training, the trials at bedtime. I commented that before long, they’d miss these days.
Even as the words left my mouth, I knew they were pointless. What I really meant to say was, “Moms, hear me! I implore you to slow down and enjoy the present.” But I understand that when your child is small and you’re the center of their world that can be a tall order. Freedom feels like a memory from another life. It’s hard to imagine your little people growing big. It’s hard to comprehend that the day will come, swiftly, when they get their own lives and you’re not the center of their world anymore. You’re nowhere close. And the young moms, the ones who received my words, probably did a silent eye roll. They could hear me, these friends, but they couldn’t hear me.
I know because I have a hard time hearing this kind of counsel, too. When my oldest son was just entering middle school, I began hearing, “Oh, wait until he gets to high school. Those year just fly.” Since then, I’ve heard some variation of that refrain at least—at least!—a hundred times. Because I’ve been a parent for 15 years now I understand that these helpful souls are telling me the truth. But we’re at the beginning of the high school journey. Right now, it seems long and arduous. So although I hear them, these well-meaning moms of older kids, I don’t really hear them. I can’t. I’m too busy surviving and enjoying the day-to-day homework, soccer practice, soccer games, football practice, football games, social events (Powder Puff football!), groceries, writing, laundry, and friends that compose my world. My life.
When that same, now 15-year-old, son was born and they placed his tiny little self in my arms, the weight of parenting bore down upon me like the weight of the world. “It’s our responsibility,” I thought, “all of it.” The learning, the growing, the playing, the teaching; I was overwhelmed by the bigness of it all.
I struggled through those early months and when my baby could finally sit and splash in the tub, there was no greater joy. His smile, his laughter, his curiosity: I couldn’t get enough of him.
He grew bigger, and in the afternoons we’d sit in his room and read book after book, his small frame on my pregnant lap. Complete bliss.
“It goes so fast!” everyone warned. But it didn’t, then. The days were long and I was tired. I heard, but I didn’t hear.
He turned 6. Big brother to two, now, he was a classic first-born: helpful, bossy, and pretty darn sure he was right.
As he grew older, he tried all kinds of sports and liked soccer best of all. He read, early and often, and we spent more time in the library and more money buying books than I ever imagined. He fell in love with the Harry Potter books and read them so often that the bindings broke. He’s on his third set.
He’s also on his way to a Homecoming dance this weekend, with a girl. He bought a corsage and made sure his tie would coordinate with her dress.
A few days ago, a wise friend said to me, “Is there nothing in life that isn’t bittersweet?” And I heard her.
I heard her loud and clear.
Hang on moms, and try to hear her, too.
