Letting Go
I watched her get on the bus, that foggy morning fourteen years ago, her backpack filled with crayons, Kleenex boxes, and glue sticks. The yawning door of the big yellow monster seemed to swallow her whole. I saw her head bobbing down the aisle, and finally choose a seat. Her tiny face looked out the window to find mine, and I waved and watched her grow smaller as the bus disappeared up the road. She was gone. My mind wavered between joy at a new adventure for her, to my own worry. How in the world will she be able to find her classroom? Will she make friends? Will she get lost in the big, gray hallways of the school? The worry soon dissipated and when she ran off the bus that first day of kindergarten, she couldn’t talk fast enough. I loved it, mom!How do we let our kids go? I think it happens gradually, so quietly that we hardly notice it happening. I was there for every heartbreak and shedding of tears that she shared with me. They come to you with their faces all screwed up trying not to cry, and you just open your arms and hold them. They need you. It’s when I found out about other instances, where she didn’t come to me, that I realized she was growing up. As a mom, I’ve realized that I don’t fit in to every area of her life. We sometimes feel like we’re the only ones who can fill that need for them. We hover, we pry, we insert ourselves so deeply that when it’s time for them to leave, they can’t wait to run out the door and we can’t figure out why.
I feel blessed that she shared so deeply with me of her life. I also feel blessed that she learned, as the years went by, how to handle situations on her own. She didn’t need a mother hen fighting her battles for her. She wasn’t so attached to me that she fell apart at the slightest prodding. She was strong. Strong through harsh travails this life threw at her. The words I used to comfort her when she was small no longer applied. My role now, is to wait in the wings if she needs me. Sometimes she will call me asking for a bit of advice. When this happens, I can hear that little girl voice inside the grown-up one. I’ll hear her out, impart some suggestions, and see what happens. I’ve found that telling her what to do doesn’t work. Why should it? I’ve raised her to be dependent on herself -- not on me.
I have a friend, who is and was a sports coach to my girls, tell me this beautiful gem of a quote the other day. It sums it all up in a nutshell on how I feel we should raise our children. It went like this, “My parents raised me to leave home.” Isn’t that the kicker, after all? All the strife, all the lovely messes our children get into, all the late night crying/talking sessions, all the rambunctious laughter, and the times we have to discipline. It all leads to one thing – leaving the home and becoming responsible for yourself.
I watched her go through airport security yesterday. She hefted her bags on to the conveyor belt, filled to the brim with clothing, make-up, and the necessities she needed for dorm life. She deftly got out her identification, went through security with confidence and picked up her bags. She turned around just before she went through the doors to her gate, her eyes searching for mine. Her face, for a moment, resembled the tiny face I remembered getting on that big yellow bus. As I looked again, it was the face of my grown-up daughter. Strength and confidence were written upon it. She waved one last time, and disappeared – and I smiled.