For the first four-ish years, all you do is hold onto them.
You hold them to feed them, hold them to get them to sleep–to soothe the reflux, to calm them when they are teething, throwing up, sitting on the potty trying to poop, crying about a bloody knee, screaming in a tantrum, sobbing from playground drama, when you’re crossing a busy street or parking lot, to say prayers, and to kiss them while they sleep.
Some days, especially in the early weeks, you hold them so much your arms are on fire and screaming in pain, and you cannot wait for them to go to sleep so you can just not hold them for five minutes at least please dear god. And when you take them to pre-school for the first time the nice ladies have to pry them out of your arms to force you to leave because you do not want to let go, and they don’t want you to either!
And then the universe turns inside out.
They start to let go.
Nobody every told me about all the letting go’s of being a mama.
First you hold them on the swing. Then they learn how to swing and fly high into the sky on their own. This is really the first letting go I really realized I was going to have to handle. Suddenly she’s swinging up, straight into the sun, and I can’t see her for the sun is in my face, and even though she might fall off, she’s on her own.
Then the bike riding. First on the tricycle, not even pedaling, just scooting with their feet. Then pedaling. Then a new “big girl bike” with training wheels, and trying out riding on the grass and in the driveway. Then an even bigger bike in the front yard. Then the big bike without training wheels. And then not riding in the grass but on the street, all by herself, suddenly getting a block ahead of me, perfectly capable on her own.
What.the.
I let her go on the swing those few years ago. I wanted her to go, I was tired of pushing and trying to teach her how to pump her legs. But when she finally did it on her own, I was thinking, wait wait, wait, now Mama isn’t ready!
I wanted her to ride her bike on her own, to not have to listen to the tantrums every time she fell over, break my back pushing her on the grass to start her on the pedals, to be able to go on a long walk with her. And then she could do it. And I stood in the driveway and watched her.
Letting go is heartbreaking and exhilarating. I feel like every time I let them go, I reel back and think, change my mind and think, “WAIT! Not yet.” I spent so much time holding on through their babyhood, this whole letting go thing always catches me unsuspecting. I let him go up and down the slide on his own. I let him pour his own chocolate milk. I let her go to cheerleading camp. I let her go to kindergarten. She kicked and screamed, and I cried that first week of “big girl school.”
Now she doesn’t look back when I drop her off. And he waves noncommittally at me and runs to his friends and teacher.
The older they get the more I understand that I will have to let go not when I’m ready, but when they are ready. It’s the letting go at the top of the slide before he goes down on his own, or standing behind her while she swings into the sky or vanishes down the street on her bike, that makes me really feel like a mother. Because now they can do it on their own.
But don’t go too far, yet, please. Mama isn’t ready.
