Many Happy Returns

My youngest child turned 30 today. Six days later, my eldest child will turn 33, and though the present is clearly momentous, I can’t stop the flashbacks to the past.

I remember their births feeling like the first miracles of my life. I can still recall their even breathing and sweet breath as they lay sleeping on my chest, the warmth of their skin against mine, and the magic of their first smile.

Yes, I had given them life, but they had given me life, too, and purpose. I was a mother, entrusted with their care and their growth and their success as human beings. The task was tremendous and terrifying and joyful and overwhelming, and all together the most important work of my life.

The first time they called me Mommy felt like fireworks and Christmas Day combined. I remember the first time they squeezed my hand, hugged my neck, and cried on my shoulder. I remember when their tears became mine; when their milestones became more important than mine; when their achievements caused more pride than my own. I remember their walking without my aid for the first time, finally allowing me to let go of the back of their two wheeler, watching them walk into their classroom alone, and all the crying after the good-byes—my tears not theirs.

Then there was all the praying for them during tryouts, recitals, performances and games. I hated their disappointments even though I knew intellectually that they contributed to their resilience and determination. I hated their failures even though it was I who taught them that they would learn more from them than their successes. I hated their sadness even though I knew joy was right around the corner.

And joyful it was for me, watching them excel in school, on the athletic field, and on stages of all sorts. To this day, I have never enjoyed a theater production more than ones in which my daughter sang and danced in various lead rolls. Just thinking about when others asked for her autograph still gives me chills.

I still feel pride about my son playing football, not because he excelled in the game and was being pursued by Division I Universities but because of the perseverance with which he sought that goal and the hurdles he overcame—worry about not growing tall enough (He’s 6’4 now.), lifting weights that weighed more than he did to get strong enough, and running more laps than seemed humanly possible.

It wasn’t just that my children were so successful at all they were involved in, but they had grown into successful people—considerate, respectful, and caring about other people. It was a thrill when others would tell me how amazing and accomplished my children were. It was confirmation that I wasn’t just prejudiced about my own children, but that I had really done a great job as a mother, and nothing was more important to me.

But it wasn’t the opinion of others that was most important. It was what my children thought. My most precious belongings are still the thank you notes and letters of gratitude they wrote even through college. They are still what can lift my spirits and bring tears of joy.

I consider it a gift to have stayed home to raise my children. I was able to instill my values, my expectations, and my work ethic. I was able to experience the everyday joy and the unexpected magic. I was also able to love without reserve and without condition.

They are adults now, carving their own way and letting go of parental control has been the hardest challenge in my life. I can no longer direct or protect, and that may be the toughest part of parenting yet, but I have to continue to trust that what I instilled when they were young will continue to play out in the choices they make as adults.