Letting Go

The picture in my mind is clear: My mom and I are visiting in my kitchen, when out of the corner of my eye I see my two perfect and adorable daughters, one about 18 months, the other about 4, gleefully digging into the Cheerios box, throwing huge handfuls over their heads. Everywhere, there are Cheerios. I remember letting out a horrified shriek and lunging toward them with the intent of stopping the cereal rain. My mom, on the other hand, looks at the girls and laughs, and then looks at me and says, “Enjoy it while it lasts.” Then she smiles, gives us all kisses, waves and says, “Bye!”

And now, all of a sudden, we are here, eons beyond Cheerios: one girl a senior in high school and the other just starting those four years. I had no idea it would be so true. It all went so fast.

As we worry about college apps and test scores and annual tuitions that could buy four small cars, I remember that feeling of having no idea what in the world to feed my just-starting-solids baby. I remember polling every mom I knew who was slightly ahead of me: “Now, what should I be giving her? And how much? And when?” I was baffled for weeks. Until I finally took the plunge and just started feeding her. She ate.

As I wonder about the girls in our new high school – Will they be kind? Will they see how kind and funny and wonderful my daughter is? – I remember the days when I organized my girls’ playdates. So many playdates. Those days long gone, all I can do now is pray. Every morning. That my girls will create their own loyal, lifelong, happy relationships. So many prayers.

Instead of making playdates and school projects and ballet classes happen for them now, I just pray for guidance as I guide them, holding their hands – metaphorically at this point, because we all know that nobody really wants to hold my hand now, even if they humor me every once in a while – to help them make their own friends, their own choices, their own lives.

I didn’t know it would go so fast. We’re not even done. They’ve got a lot more years of needing guidance, thank goodness, because I’ve got a whole lot more guidance in me to give. But still. My babies are only babies in my memory.

Now I have time to see those same mommy friends – the ones who told me what to feed the girls and which strollers to buy – for lunch or a movie or even the occasional happy hour. And if my girls happen to be there, they want a sip. And my big girls, my mom friends, still guide me. It’s just that now they’re telling me what it’s like to leave a child in LA or DC or Tulsa, and next thing we know we’ve all got tears running down our cheeks into our Tiny Boxwoods therapy cookies.

This is what’s supposed to happen. We spend 18 years prepping our progeny to be self-sufficient enough to leave. And that whole time we worry that they’ll never get to that point. And then we catch those glimpses: They extend their hand first. They resolve an issue with a teacher on their own. They send a thank you without being prompted (well, we can wish). And then we realize that something we did – something we’re doing – must be working. And we smile and cheer them on. And cheer for ourselves a little bit, too. And then we panic. Because they will be leaving.

So here I am, one looking at college and one starting high school. I’ve been panicking about this moment – about the actual leaving, which isn’t even here yet – for at least three years. I’m pretty sure the panic will escalate as this year goes by, and I’m absolutely sure the teary lunches with my friends will continue. But for now, thank goodness for those lunches, and thank goodness for my giggling daughters’ eye-rolls as I frequently choke up in front of them.

People say it’s really wonderful when it actually happens. When your kids follow their dreams and are happy and fulfilled and having fun. When we, as parents, have time to do things we love. But looking at it in anticipation, I’m not so sure. Right now, I think I’d like to be scooping up my giggly girls and cleaning a giant pile of Cheerios.