Middle Age Angst

The blessing of being a mother is one that can never be matched. I wouldn’t have known to ask for a gift so filled with lessons in patience, persistence, perseverance, kindness, fear, anger, letting go. Being a mother embodies the good, the bad and the ugly. And I’d never have it any other way; except for the times when it feels as though my heart is being ripped out of my chest.

I thought I was prepared for this stage of motherhood. For about four years I’ve made a conscious effort to befriend women who are either just a head of me, or in the same space. We’ve had coffee, shared experiences, hopes and strengths. As a core group we’ve gathered each other up and held one another- sometimes tight and warm, and sometimes at arms-length. We’ve chosen to be denial-busters and at other times have dried tears. Through it all we’ve held hands and hearts. I was mentally preparing, but clearly nothing could have adequately equipped me for this level of grief.

For twenty-four years I’ve been a mother whose primary role has been caretaker to her four children. For ten of those years I’ve been a single mother balancing the roles of chief breadwinner along with chauffeur, chef, scheduler, disciplinarian, counselor and all-around organizer. Slowly, as children have launched, the intensity of these roles has lessened. I didn’t know how painful the loss of these roles would be.

The day to day physical intensity is no longer needed. Gone are school events, conferences, meetings, games, practices and concerts. Enter the “revolving door” era when the multitude of comings and goings tugs at my heart strings like a pain I’ve never known. The gratitude I feel to see them on my doorstep melts into bittersweet moments of re-entry. Then, just as soon as I’m accustomed to them being home, they leave again. The tears fall. I know, intellectually, that they’re not leaving me; after all I’ve raised them with wings. It still feels that way sometimes. You know, those times when I’m not shouting “hallelujah” as the car pulls out of the driveway.

They promise to return. It’s what I’ve asked of them. With pictures and stories to share of their adventures. I am blessed that they choose to share their experiences, that they want to come home- to get grounded, feel safe, get cookies. Then they’re off again. Is it prideful that I feel such success at this behavior? It’s yet another bittersweet piece.

And now there’s me. It’s time for my adventure. New roles to try on, new hands to hold. It’s not an easy shift; while there may be others who could use my care, there’s some work to be done on me. I’m grateful for this time, and grateful for the awareness that I’m in need of some healing. There’s a hole that needs to be filled and instead of filling with external stuff- people, places, things- I’m gonna work toward knitting that hole back together from within. Though I won’t be surprised if a cookie or two passes my lips.