You birth these precious cherubs. Bring them into the world and for awhile, they are your world. And you are theirs.
You teach them to read,
and to explore.
You’re with them in their valleys
and on their mountain tops.
You nurse them when they are sick, serving them Sprite and bouillion and toast. You try to let them rest . . . as much as anyone can rest while having their temperature taken and their blankets adjusted hourly through the night.
You laugh with them in their silliness
and help them through their messes and mistakes.
You watch them fall in love
and know that one day, another will replace you.
You hope you’ve taught them enough. That you haven’t made too many mistakes. That their faith and their character will make up the difference. They’re ready to embark on this adventure. You? Not so much.
But you take them as far as you can. Excited for the next step.
Excited for the hopes and dreams of the future. Praying that they’re ready. Praying that their faith is strong enough to see them through.
And then they don’t answer your calls. They don’t answer your texts. You know they are busy. You know they are being asked to work harder than you’ve ever asked them to. You know they are tired. But you want to know how they are. You want to hear it from them. But you go on, making plans for a field trip that won’t include them. Knowing their plans don’t include you.
You know they are OK. There WOULD have been a call if they weren’t. And somehow, you know that this, too, is right. Because it’s their life now and you are no longer the center. Still, you don’t feel quite right until that first text comes in. “Sorry, mom. I was at the forge all day but I finally got my hoof pick made. It’s hard!” And then you finally find a bit of peace that they are where they belong and that they know where you are if they need you.
Because they’re growing up and you’re letting go.