Tag Archives: adult children

Releasing the Mom Dream Discovering the Me Dream

That thing in my throat.

I think I’m winning the battle with it, but it sneaks up too often.

Tears stuck in there.

Or maybe sobs.

Because there is water in my eyes.

I’m not really that sad, am I?

But it’s this perpetual lodging of emotion

A wall of it across my throat

Right at my Adams apple.

At least it is no longer all day, every day.

It’s mostly when I kiss the last goodbye.

For twenty-three years I’ve been home.

Rarely alone.

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Alone time a great gift.

But now.

Now.

Each moment with is the gift.

(And wasn’t it then, too?)

The long hours are empty of them.

Some far away. A phone call or pictures on Facebook the connection.

Others still here.

But not home.

Work. College classes. Friends.

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As it should be, this.

I celebrate with and for them.

I celebrate for me, too.

Finding my rhythm.

Following my dreams now.

But I can’t avoid the grief journey.

Even when I try.

So I walk it honestly.

Letting go of that first, most treasured dream.

Staying home with them.

Teaching them to read.

Singing songs.

Hiking and field trips

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Building forts in the backyard and tents in the living room.

Snow days with shoveling and sledding and spaghetti for lunch.

snow day 4

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Cuddling together like puppies with our favorite read-a-loud.

Praying too long at devotions.

They started timing me.

I guess I didn’t have enough alone time to satisfy all I needed to say to Him in those days.

Then driver’s licences and first jobs and sports and speech competitions

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sarah spring tournament 2008

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And friends

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Baby steps from home.

Medium ones, too Sarah smiles

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Preparing us all for the giant leave.

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Another car loaded for college

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One-by-one. Sometimes two or three at a time.

Moving on.

Strong. Ready. Joyful.

But not here.

Not here with me.

The emotion ledge in my throat doesn’t last as long today.

The house is quiet.

Excited to meet my goals.

As soon as the lump lodged in my throat allows.

Freeze Frame

IMAG0071The last three roses froze on the bush today, little sprinkles of powdered sugar snow caught on their still-perfect, stiff form.

I brought them in hoping their blossoms will last a little longer.

Tried to freeze frame their beauty.

Hang onto the season of roses just a bit longer.

This time yesterday it was a balmy 73.

I worked hard then, painting, cooking, baking, entertaining. A full day and a full house.

Today the home echos empty, and melancholy sets in. Maybe I’m simply tired. Or perhaps I’m grieving the passing of the season.

Roses freezing.

Boy becoming man.

He’s the last home. A senior in high school on the verge of flying.

And today he is seventeen.

All 6 foot 1 inches of him.20140707_204145

This day he applied for a job, drove himself to physical therapy. Now he’s working on an English paper for the college class he’s taking.

Nothing little kid in  all of that.

Just growing up and beyond.

As it should be.

Earlier we cried a little together. The grief was more poignant on my birthday, too, remembering those gone who usually celebrated with me.

It hit him the same way, and I knelt beside my son at the hint of tears in his grown-up eyes.

He held me as my eyes filled too. And while I meant to comfort, it was he who comforted me, his arms and shoulders lending masculine strength.

When did he ease out of child receiving and into adult giving?

The sky outside has darkened, but the rushing snow brings beauty. I love the season of baking and quiet and snowmen and sledding.

The home inside has emptied, but on special days they rush back in bringing joy.

Yesterday they were here–all but the one too far away to drive home for an afternoon. I baked up a storm. They brought spouse and girlfriend and best friends. We watched the game and a movie.

Said happy birthday to Sam.

Maybe that’s why today this house is very quiet.

I thought I wanted this.

This greater space for me.

And tomorrow I will.

Sarah's party - SamBut right now I want to burrow in and hide a while from the wind of change.

To cling to the little boy twinkle in eyes of the past.

The same that flickers still in teasing gazes of the present.

I want to hug a little tighter.

Hold on a little longer.

Snuggle with him on the sofa.

Refusing the thought that he is seventeen.

And not seven.

A young man.

No longer a boy.

To freeze frame this moment.

To believe the blossoms will not grow old.

The season has not yet fled.