He
was just making sure, in all those queries, that I was nearby, and I figured
the “I love you” was the façade of a growing-up boy who didn’t want to announce
outright that he was nervous when he lost track of where I was in relation to
him. He doesn’t do that anymore, and, like most bits of my children’s growing
up that fade until I suddenly realize they are gone, I don’t know when he
stopped.
It
seems to happen in fits and starts, this growing up process. One day I’ll look
at my son, and he seems abruptly three inches taller, or my daughter’s face
appears unexpectedly mature and I wonder where my little girl has gone, or the
littlest one decides she doesn’t need me to walk her into the classroom each
morning.
Now
my son, who once needed to know where I was at all times, wanders confidently
through his familiar domain. He goes on regular solo expeditions, wandering far
into the fields beyond the yard, although he often convinces the dog to keep
him company. He has even ridden his bike to his grandparents’ house around the
corner without me realizing it until he appeared again at my side and I thought
to wonder where he’d been.
At
social gatherings and school events, all three of my children are now generally
comfortable running off to play with friends. Some children, I’m convinced, do
that from the first moment they are independently mobile, scampering out of
their parents’ grasp as quickly as possible. Not mine. It seems just a week or
two ago they were constantly hovering at my side, and I was endlessly trying to
shoo them away to play and leave me with a few inches – and a few welcome
moments – of personal space.
As
I’ve watched my children gradually gain independence, I’ve come to appreciate
both the freedom to move and converse without a child or three clinging to my
leg and the moments when they come back to sit with me. I used to be able to
hold all three at once to read stories; now, when one of my children climbs
onto my lap, it is all long legs and pointy elbows until they settle in. But
the settling in is as sweet as ever. They are, all three, still young enough
that when we are walking somewhere – down the driveway, through the woods,
along a sidewalk – someone (or two) will hold my hand.
There
was a time not so long ago that I took walks close to home with a baby strapped
to my chest and a toddler gripping each hand. Now, hand-holding has become a
test of how fast they’re growing up. As we walk together, I often put my hand
out and spread my fingers, holding my breath as I wait to see what will happen.
Thankfully, my hand is filled each time, still, with a smaller one to hold.
For
that I am grateful, and will be for as long as it lasts, this hand-holding and
couch-snuggling and bedtime-story-reading. Sometimes it seems I am the one who
needs to be reassured of my children’s closeness. I am the one calling out to
make sure they are still within shouting distance. I am the one seeking
spontaneous hugs, sneaking in an extra squeeze, trying to store up all that
closeness in my heart for the inevitable day when I will reach out my hand and
they will be too grown up to hold it.
At
ages 7 and 5, my children are at a magical stage where self-reliance and proud
independence coalesce with the lingering attitude that Mama is pretty cool.
They will entertain themselves happily for hours (except for the times when they’re
harassing each other, but let’s focus on the good moments here). They are super
fun skiing, mountain biking, and soccer-playing companions. They get themselves
dressed in the morning, get their own snacks, brush their own teeth, and put
their own laundry away. In short, I no longer have to do everything for them, but
they still, usually, like having me around.
I
have often heard my own mother say that a parent’s role is to foster in her
children both roots and wings: a sense of place, of home, but also the
confidence, skill, and knowledge to take off and fly to new heights, new
places, new experiences. I am already slightly terrified that my children will
fly away some day, as I did once. But I want them to be ready for that day when
it comes. And I want them to know where home is, too, that when they need me,
I’ll be here.
My
son still calls to me regularly from the other room or across the yard or down
the stairs. Only now, when he calls, it is often, “Mom?” instead of, “Mama?”
And it is generally followed up with a question about something (“Where are my
soccer cleats?”) or to share some glimmer of newly acquired knowledge (“Did you
know that kinkajous are nocturnal?”) or seeking permission (“I’m going outside,
OK?”).
As
I answer each of his queries, I add my own, “I love you.” And still, thank
goodness, the reply comes, “I love you, too, Mom!” as he bounds off into the
world.
Original content by Meghan McCarthy McPhaul, posted to her Blog: Writings From a Full Life. This essay also appears as Meghan's Close to Home column in the October 24, 2014 edition of the Littleton Record.