I just sang my seven year old boy to sleep for the last time last night. Eight. My baby boy is eight today. Since he was born, I have sung “Godspeed (Sweet Dreams)” to him, rocking him when he’s sad, tired, or just rubbing my face with his tiny hand. My favorite line is, “My love will fly to you each night on angels’ wings.” I often imagine what that will look like when he is no longer in our home.
I don’t know where the time goes. There have been moments as he and his sister toddled around the house that I just wanted them to be self-sufficient because it was so hard. I take it back. Give me my babies. Mamahood had (and still has) so many moments where I just wanted to cry and wish the time away. Then the day comes when it is gone, and there’s no going back to the tiny hands rubbing your face and squeezing you tight.
When you become a mom, there is no preparation in the world for the emotions that are coming your way. You can read all the books, listen to endless podcasts, and share stories with fellow parents, but the heart can only experience the happiness, pain, joy, anxiety, heartbreak, and every other feeling in between when it has had its own experiences. Being a mama is soul work. Every single hour of every single day my soul is at work to protect the tiny humans who my husband and I created. They are miracles, and I struggle with their growth. And I don’t know why. I’m enjoying every moment, but perhaps I’m afraid they will leave me one day and not need me. At the same time, I celebrate with jubilation that I have been blessed with them each birthday, as I know not every mom gets this joy. An unfathomable pain for them, which makes me feel selfish that I’m sometimes emotionally, mentally, and physically tired. My heart is conflicted. I love watching them mature and become their own people, but I miss the things that used to be firsts and struggle watching them become lasts.
Along with trying to understand my own emotions on how I’m processing their maturation, I also want to show up for them when they need me and cheer for them silently when they need to figure it out on their own. I don’t have all the answers, and a lot of times I don’t think I have any answers. But I do have the ability to teach them compassion, grit, resilience, acceptance, kindness, love, and strength. As I blinked and 10 years have passed, I may have missed some important moments because I was not where I needed to be in my life. But my kids don’t know that. They don’t know I’ve cried for them. They don’t know I’ve stayed up endless hours trying to fix their pain. They don’t know disagreements their dad and I have had when making huge life decisions for them. They do know I’ll step in whenever I’m needed. Anytime. Anywhere.
What they also know is I will still tuck them in each night even though that may look different now. I will always hug them so hard and add those lingering seconds and kiss their cheeks, enjoying every snuggle they’ll give. I will always feel their pain, their joy, their heart aches, and their pride as they continue to grow right before my eyes.
When I go to bed each night, I know I haven’t been perfect, but I do know I’ve been perfect for them just as they have been more than perfect for me. They still need me. The hands are a bit bigger, the problems are a little more complicated, but when my sweet girl says she is glad she has us as her mama and daddy, there’s no better confirmation that we’re doing ok. We’re more than ok. The perfect outfits, greatest vacations, fun outings, and trips to ice cream shops aren’t what matter. The conversations, the listening, the drying of tears, the laughing together. That’s what matters. That’s what they remember. That’s what fills our hearts.
I may not be able to hold my babies in my arms and rock them back and forth as I did only a few years ago, but I will forever hold them in my heart. And by doing this, they’ll always need me. Just as I will always need them. No matter how old we are.
