As I slipped on the shoes that weren’t mine but my mother’s, it dawned on me: my firstborn now wore shoes as large as my own. The tiny boy who could barely stretch the length of my torso at birth was on the cusp of surpassing his size-seven-wearing mother.
And so, I wondered, do children notice their own growth or is it only their mothers who bear witness to this transformation? For a mother, it is an acute realization, a poignant reminder of the ever-widening distance from the day they were inextricably bound to us.
Cutting the cord is the first step away from that unique bond, and from that moment forward, the ties can only grow looser. For that is the trajectory of motherhood; we nurture and raise individuals who will, by design, need us less and less.
Yet, if we truly contemplate it, this narrative is imbued with both joy and sorrow. It is a love that costs, for we dedicate our lives to those who will ultimately live separate ones. As I once remarked, marriage grants us the opportunity to lose our independence and become one with our spouses, while motherhood requires us to consciously wean our children from the oneness they share with us, enabling them to establish their own identities in the world.
It is a difficult task, one that often creeps up on us, leaving us lulled into believing that our children cannot exist without us until that illusion is shattered with a request like, “Can I have a party with my friends, and can the adults stay in another room away from us?”
He is differentiating, and already at 10? I must admit, I was taken aback, perhaps even a touch offended. After all, I orchestrate the events in this household, so surely I have the right to choose my whereabouts at his party, right?
But that is the wrong response. Children did not ask to be born. We chose to bring them into the world, and it remains our duty to provide them with the best possible life, without any sense of entitlement. They must respect us, cultivate a relationship with us, but they are not obligated to lose themselves for our sake. They were born to be their own individuals.
It simply hurts when it finally happens, because from the moment we lay eyes on them, we vow to forget ourselves for the entirety of their lives. And then the day comes when they remember us less, coinciding with the time when we ourselves struggle to recall who we were before they arrived.
Who was I before you, my children? What were the passions I held dear? Can I resurrect the pursuits I abandoned so that you could live? Or is it too late now? Has the ship sailed, leaving me stranded on the shore?
When my first child was born, I confided in my cousin that motherhood was an endless cycle of sleep deprivation and countless questions. Ten years later, I remain in the same state. Sleep continues to elude me, and I am still plagued by a multitude of questions. Mothers of adult children confide that they still struggle to rest at night, their minds preoccupied with their children and their grandchildren. It seems sleep is a luxury reserved for everyone except mothers.
Ironically, despite the knowledge that sleep deprivation is detrimental to our health, mothers somehow persevere. Through bleeding nipples and arduous recoveries, we power through, and a chosen few even emerge as athletes. Speaking of which, I aspire to be one. But the dilemma lies in choosing between my own athletic pursuits and prioritizing the physical and mental development of my sons.
Case in point: I yearned to participate in the Spartan Race last year, but I found myself purchasing a race entry for them instead. I console myself with the thought that perhaps next year will be my year, but that year has come and gone, and it still hasn’t happened. The window of opportunity has yet to open for me as it has for some mothers. Even among us, there are varying realities that intertwine with our mothering, making it possible or impossible to fulfill our own dreams.
So, I speak only for myself and others like me who have chosen to make motherhood our primary pursuit. And like any other demanding endeavor, we are sustained by our unwavering “why.” Thankfully, mine manifests itself every day through their precious faces, their innocence, and their earnest hearts.
Though every now and then, they articulate it in a way that encapsulates all the joys, pains, highs, and lows of our mission. “Someday, you boys should find a girl you love, and who also loves you,” their father said.
“I don’t want to!” my second born vehemently replied. “Because Mama is the girl I most love!”
When a mother is exhausted and enduring countless sacrifices, she sometimes forgets that she, too, is deeply and unconditionally loved. Even before a child learns to speak or grasp the concept of love, it is already present, an unbreakable bond that makes it impossible for them to imagine life without their first human, their first home, their first love. No one else can occupy this uniquely significant role in their lives but their mother, and when we recognize this privilege amidst the pain, our spirits are hopefully lifted by the realization that the costs are inconsequential when we receive so much more in return.
After all, the world offers an endless array of hopes and dreams for sale, but as I grow older, I understand that love is the most elusive of all. Yet our children bestow it upon us wholeheartedly, regardless of our identities, our careers, our social status, or our athletic achievements. For them, our mere presence, our warmth, and our availability are more than enough, which they will reciprocate with unwavering trust and boundless adoration.
Yes, in your milk-stained shirt, through your thinning hair and aching scars, oh sleep-deprived beauty, you are undeniably the love of their lives. And without fail, every child who has come into my world has looked into my eyes and shown me that it is right to surrender who I could be for all that they are. That I have an eternity to contemplate the kind of empty-nester I will become, but today holds the chance for a love that is unparalleled, undeserved, and unconditional.
