When our only kid, Jack, was seven or eight years old and struggling with some sadness I no longer remember, I resorted to my usual to bring him out of it. Which is to say humor combined with a big blast of mom-love.
“Angel, do you know who my favorite little boy is in the whole world?” I asked him.
He looks at me, his face shining with hope. “Who, Mom?”
“Your cousin, Elliott. Do you know who my second favorite little boy is in the whole world?”
He eyes me mistrustingly.
“That neighbor kid across the street, what’s-his-name.”
Understanding dawns, and his mouth lifts at the corners. I go on to list another relative, one of his teammates from whatever sport we were in at the moment, then a child we met once on vacation.
“But you’re sixth!” I exclaim. “In the whole world! That’s a very, very high ranking.”
By now he’s smiling and securely snuggled into my side, although he becomes serious for a moment when he whispers, “But it’s really me, right Mom?”
“By a million miles,” I whisper back.
Fast-forward ten years, which in retrospect felt like ten minutes, and we’re dropping Jack off at college. I hold it together until the final goodbye, wherein I become a tearful, snot-dripping mess. Excited as he was to move forward with his life, my distress made him cry along with me, and more on that later.
We’re a close family, maybe because we had each other’s undivided attention all these years, but also because Jack’s an old soul who processes his feelings in a thoughtful, un-hurried way. Which is to say there hasn’t been any dramatic rejection of us and home, just measured leaps of independence as he solidifies his adult self. It all looks great on a macro level.
Inside this mother’s heart, however, it hurts. His freshman year of college, I cried every day until mid-January, and how I wish I could’ve been more like my husband: melancholy over the passing of time but more excited for the road ahead, both for Jack as a young man and for us as a couple. At one point, my husband teased me, “Would you rather he didn’t go to college? That he gains 300 pounds and lives in our basement?”
“Well, maybe a little…”
I didn’t let myself fall completely apart – I kept up with my life and the hope I might someday find something half as compelling as being Jack’s mom (nope, or at least, not yet). Neither did I share my sadness with him, because Jack isn’t responsible for my feelings. I am. I know this, and I’m ashamed when I think back on that goodbye when he was a college freshman, how I made him cry.
I no longer cry every day, but I will always miss him, always mourn the loss of the day-to-day mothering that took everything I had and gave me the richest possible life in return. My husband and I have taken a few trips, sometimes go out for dinner on a Tuesday, and enjoy a center of calm to our relationship we haven’t had in quite some time. Jack’s always close to my thoughts, but now when something reminds me of a funny or trying or unhinged experience we had, I’m not so lost. My memories extend both forward and back these days, permanent parts of me that mark me as loving and whole instead of broken. I did a good job. Jack’s a fine young man with a solid foundation to go forth in the world. It helps me to repeat these things.
It’s not the ‘getting better’ I envisioned, but I am less unhappy and can look at the future with a little anticipation.
Last week when I was blue, I went back on my promise not to bother him with myself. He picked up right away when I called, was with his roommates watching a movie. He excused himself to go into a different room so we could talk, asking what was up.
“I hate to ask, but are you not coming home this weekend because you don’t want to be with us? Maybe you don’t want to feel obligated?”
He said this wasn’t the case, explained his decision… and I believed him. A bit of silence stretched on the phone until I rallied my sense of humor to end it. “Do you have any questions for me? Anything you’ve been wondering about me or my day?”
“You know, I do have a question for you.”
Uh-oh. That sly tone…
“Do you know who my favorite mom is in the whole world?” he asks.
I immediately start laughing. “Who’s your favorite mom, Jack?”
“Have you ever had those chocolate squares that Katie Baccoli makes? They’re amazing. She’s number one for sure. Do you know who my second favorite mom in the world is?”
I’m giggling. “I can’t imagine.”
“Abe’s mom. Remember when she took Abe and me to the Rob Zombie concert? Yeah. But you’re number three, Mom. In the world. That’s a very high ranking.”
I’m better by this point. “I’ll see if I can’t move up the ranks, angel,” I say.
A pause. “You don’t have to, you know. You’ll always be my favorite mom of all the moms. How about we do something next Saturday?”
Errin Stevens blogs, bakes, gardens, and chases dust bunnies at her home in St. Paul, Minnesota. Her three novels – Updrift, Breakwater, and Outrush – are available everywhere fine books are sold, and you can visit her web site at https://errinstevens.com/
Originally posted 2024-10-22 02:03:07.
