Letting Go

"You will always have what you gave to love"--Beth Nielsen Chapman

Every day, my children break my heart. When I look at them, I don't just see the young adults that they are. In my mind's eye, they are four, still holding my hand, or seven, showing me the smile with missing teeth, or babies, looking at me as though they've never seen anything more mesmerizing than my face.  Once upon a time, they needed me more than they needed their friends, wanted my company more than they wanted their space, desired my attention more than they desired a phone or a car or a Facebook page. Ah, but that is the true irony of parenthood, isn't it? You bring them up so that they don't need you anymore.
I remember when people used to say to me, "Pay attention, write everything down, remember, because it all goes by so fast." I paid attention when I could, had no time to write every single memory, and remember perhaps a thumbnail of what has transpired in all these years. It just isn't possible. And now I find myself looking at the pictures of their childhood, recalling with wistful longing how I held them, read or sang to them, sat with them through countless episodes of Sesame Street, Power Rangers and Little Bear.
Last week's episode of "Hoarding" really resonated with me. A woman with three children couldn't throw anything away, especially toys and books and other things that reminded her of earlier times with them. She was so obsessed, she had even driven her husband away. He moved out three years earlier because of her need to keep everything and fill the house to bursting. One day, the therapist working with her asked her to repeat a phrase. It went like this: "I cannot bring back their childhood. I cannot bring back their childhood. I cannot bring back their childhood." As the woman repeated the mantra, her voice broke. And as I listened and watched the pain in her face, I understood and cried along with her.
I suppose I'm romanticizing those days, much like women do before they have children. You know, as if motherhood isn't full of dirty diapers, endless crying (the babies, not me! Well, maybe me.) and major sleep deprivation.
So it won't surprise you to know that now I treasure, with my whole heart and soul, these other, newer times with my kids. I'm not holding my baby daughter, but I have held her through a break-up and an unsuccessful bid to make the field hockey team. My middle child may no longer need to hold my hand, but when he shares his problems and worries with me, listening is a lot like hand-holding if you think about it. My oldest, well, he's another story. He will always need me, because God sent me a child with Down syndrome. Maybe, just maybe, God knew how much I need to be needed. I have to think that the love I've given will come back to me, as Beth so beautifully put it. I'll need to amend my first statement then. My children don't just break my heart. They fill it up too.