Some people may read the title of this piece and immediately assume that I am a woman writing about the greatest loss of the greatest love of my life. In a way, they would be correct. These words hold sorrow over the loss of someone that I love. The only difference is this is situation between a mother and her son.
Now, I have to assure you. This loss is not as heavy as you may think. I won’t even begin to compare the gravity of my feelings to someone who has truly lost any capability to actually touch, see, or hold their child. It’s not that dire.
This is simply a story, or a poem, or a reflection, about a young mother, who did everything in her power to keep her baby safe and to make sure with her he always had an escape from the scary monsters that hid in the shadows.
Turns out, my grip was too tight and that reality has left me feeling a bit hollow.
Perspective. How it changes from year to year.
The halls that were once filled with the pitter patters of little feet, running, playing, laughing, now silent. Oh, how I desperately miss those sounds. The ghostly echoes are all I have left now.
It’s the little things, like the emptiness of the bathroom sink. All of my things, no longer mixed with all of his things. One toothbrush instead of two. Only my hair products, no longer his.
I laugh at the nearest memory of my 15 year old child trying to find his style.
I remember how hard it is to “find your style” as a teen. I always wished I could help him see that he has every reason to be confident. But at his age, there seems to be nothing but self doubt and uncomfortable feelings stumbling about.
Things were simplier…and sillier…when he was a small child.
Those year flew by. I never wanted to believe it when anyone would tell me how time melts away and the memories fade and sometimes the best way to remember is by looking at pictures.
Our minds have to make room for other situations and challenges.
But my God do I ponder and cherish the tiniest recollections, like the way he’d peak his head in my doorway, to say hello, or goodnight, or as he got older, to air out a big fight we’d had earlier in the day.
I miss the way we used to be able to talk.
It used to be so easy.
No one prepares you for the complications of raising a teenager.
Or maybe they try. But there is just no book or scripture or verse that can prepare you for the worst of the worst of disagreements.
I envy those who have whole families and have a partner that can speak reason into the son as he blames his Mum for all the unfairness in the world.
I have always been a single mother by choice. That is a whole other story in itself. And over the last few months, I came across the fork in the road. I never thought I would find myself there.
I avoided that fork in the road like the plague but all of the other ways I traveled became so vague that I couldn’t remember and I got lost and I guess call it fate because I ended up right where I swore I’d never be.
I was left standing next to a choice.
And the choice was to allow him to go one way, and for me to go the other. Hoping that one day, someday, our paths will intertwine or at least align in some way again.
Our parallel paths became askew.
Oh how I wish, I wish I knew how to say the right thing to you.
But I have arrived to this moment when my son needs his father more than he needs his mother. And I will admit that as much as it bothers me, it always provides relief, that I have the option to allow him to find himself somewhere else.
Regardless, I miss him.
For years now, I’ve watched the kid I raised fade and morph into something alien. No offense to him one bit, but I think all parents can agree that our teenagers become unrecognizable and we aren’t sure where our babies have run off to. All we know is they no longer fit in the little bubble we created for them when they were small and innocent.
What a wild truth. What a weird bout of acceptance. To let go a little; to allow them to learn the meaning of resilience.
My son moved away less than a week ago and I’m having so much trouble with this sudden change in my daily life. Because my daily life was always wound tight around what he needed, what he wanted, what was best for him. I haven’t spent much time in the last 15 years thinking about anything else. My self care’s been lacking; my health, both mental and physical, falling apart and coming together simultaneously. A strange dance that I think most mother’s are familiar with.
We give our all to our children and some days are good and some days are bad and some days we can take time for ourselves and other times it seems that weeks go by and we’ve barely had a chance to show any ounce of care for our own well-being.
As a working mom for most of his life, I lost myself.
So now the big question is…
Who am I outside of motherhood?
I think I know that answer. But also, I have no fucking idea.
I have no idea who I really am outside of motherhood.
Unraveling my soul 