I never realized how much of a loss I would feel when my son moved out. I’ll admit it took five years to feel it, but it’s happened.
I’m grieving the loss of my kid’s childhood. It’s as painful as any grief I have ever felt. I see women, some my age, with young kids and I’m filled with a terrible melancholy. I feel like it was over in a day, I brought them home from the hospital and the next day they were twenty years old.
I feel like I have forgotten how tiny their little fingers and toes were.
I feel like I’ve forgotten their first step and their first word.
I feel like I have forgotten their first day of school, their first karate lesson.
I feel like I’ve forgotten their first date, first fight, first time they got drunk.
I grieve for the time that’s now gone because I don’t remember and didn’t cherish every minute.
I don’t remember the moment that I was handed my first child. I don’t remember looking into his amazingly vivid purple eyes and feeling my heart explode with love. Nope.
I didn’t cherish the years we spent walking the town, going to the lake and parks. I didn’t cherish walking around eating a baguette. I didn’t cherish finding acorns and maple keys. Nope.
I don’t remember. I didn’t cherish. Some days that is how I feel, but yes I do remember, and yes, you’re damn right I cherished.
My kids are my greatest accomplishments. They did as they should have, they grew up and moved away. If you do a good job, your sweet babies will do the same. Hug the little brats for me, will ya?
Edited to add: I found a blog post today by Angrivated Mom (to insanity and beyond), and it took me back, back to every single exhausting, terrifying and horrible moment of parenting.
Here is a hug to those that are tired and hate me.