Letting Go

This is a little something I wrote for myself in October 2010. I decided it might be worth sharing:

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When he was five, he stopped holding my face. One day I just realized he had moved on. Of course, I knew it was coming. It's this endearing little thing that toddlers do, but not too many grade-schoolers. Maybe he did it for so long because he knew he could make me melt. I could never be angry with him if he just held my face and looked into my eyes.

I could tell I was becoming dependent on it when I realized how devastated I could be when it ended, and I knew it would have to end. I'd tuck him into bed at night, he'd put his little hands on my face and say, "Mommy, your skin is so soft," like it was a wonder. And like some magic elixir, Id' drink in those words and feel youth surging through this 40+ year old body.

Nighttimes were the best. Even if he'd gone to sleep in his own bed, I could count on waking up in the morning with his small head n my pillow and his hand on my cheek. My husband want to know why he always ended up with his feet, almost pushing him over the side.

When he was six, he said, "Mommy, when can I call you Mom?" Why did he want to drop the "my," the "me" part? But I bravely answered, "Anytime you want Honey." Was "never" an option?

He hardly crawls into bed with us anymore. When I asked him why he said, "Cause I don't have bad dreams anymore." For a split-second, I was torn. If I want him close to me I have to hope for bad dreams? Wouldn't that make me the monster?

No longer does he run to me to kiss the little boo-boo's away. He still needs me for the big ones, and he still comes to me when he's sick or tired, in need of hugs. He knows I'll never turn him away and he doles out his affections like a prince bestowing favors. I wait expectantly, cajole, and then bargain for my kiss good-night.

He's a first-grader now and I feel his littleness slipping away. He still holds my hand as I walk him to school in the morning, though I am not allowed to kiss him good-bye. He no longer greets me with a hug, but holds my hand as we walk home again. I treasure this contact because, all too soon, I know this will end too.

It's a fine line. We want them to be well-adjusted, safe, independent, happy, and we want to protect them from being hurt. We see the potential mistakes to be made and need to remind ourselves these are opportunities for learning - perhaps for both of us. We find ourselves possessed of a love so great, we must do what hurts the most - let go.

At night, I lie in bed listening to his measured breathing down the hall. "Sweet dreams," I whisper, and realize I may be talking to myself.