Nine months I get to know her before I ever see her face, that perfect round face topped in downy black with serious eyes and delicate features, and though my sister warned me it might not happen, it was love at first sight.
Love before first sight.
I marvel: How could anyone not believe in God if they've carried a child from seed to fruit? I want to shout to anyone, everyone "Can't you see the miracle?!" because anyone and everyone seems to think birth is ordinary. I fight this urge to shake them awake, claw the scales from their eyes, so they can see, fully see the miracle!
But we all just go about our business and tuck the miracles under deep cover and miss, that in childbirth, we are the image of God, life begetting life. It's the closest taste of Divine.
I pity men in this.
The thrill of first movement. Watching my stomach swell then stretch so tight I can see fist and foot. Realization's dawn that the annoying staccato thumping my ribs is my baby having the hiccups! And then feeding her from my body–another miracle, another shout–"My body is manufacturing milk!" for crying out loud. IT'S A MIRACLE!
For all their strength and accomplishment and reasons to be lauded, not one man has ever conceived a child and given birth. I'll take that over peeing standing up any day.
Nine months I'm host to her body, 18 months I sustain her life, 19 years I mother this child. I teach and train. I praise and pray over. I listen to and learn from. I'm challenged and challenge.
Saturday I gave her wings…and let her go.
There is a time and this was the time, but even if it's the natural order of life, even if it is good and right and as it should be, an emotional eruption lodges in my throat and I hold it there. And it's not so hard to pretend happy because I am happy. For her. In spite of the void her departure leaves, I celebrate this time in her life where anything and everything is rife with possibility.
She sees through roses and I let her. Soon enough she'll see their wilt.
There is a time.
She's gifted me, although unintentionally: she builds shields that make it easy for both of us. I should thank her but I won't. My spirit is buoyant and I sense the prayers of an army, are they responsible?
Not only is there no tearful good-bye, there's hardly good-bye at all. A fortress.
* * * * *
I didn't expect it when it came, first in the produce aisle at Publix, then when I passed English muffins, again at the Pop Secret display. Her favorites. I grit my teeth and mind scream, "Not here!" I will not fall apart at the grocery store. Emotion passes.
Last night I'm cooking dinner and I reach for plates to set the table–a red one is on top, then yellow then green. Again, it sneaks up behind me and grabs me by the throat, squeezing reluctant tears. Her favorites are the red plates, and for half a second I want to bury them all at the bottom of the stack.
Instead I reach for one of each color, refusing this wake of sadness.
This season is good. It is right. It is cause for celebration not mourning!
There is a time.
Invisible, indestructible threads bind mother to child; to give birth means that as long as you have breath, a part of your heart beats outside your own body.
No man can know it. Science cannot duplicate it.
When a baby slips from the womb, a mother is born.
And so is another miracle.
I didn’t cry when I left my son at college. I cried when I found one of his unmatched socks in the laundry room, and when I bought donuts for the kids and he wasn’t here to get one, and the night I dropped him off when I asked God to please take care of him. Hugs.
There are mamas heart hurting all over the place in this season. I get the grocery store tight throat thing, kudos on holding on there. Roots and wings…who knew…
Praying for your heart. And for so, so many of us in the same place. Your tender words, while heartbreaking to read from a similar, aching place, do encourage.
I spent yesterday trying to find things to do to bless those still sit at our table.
Thanks for sharing your thoughts
My morning was bawling my eyes out and reading this twice. I know that day will come so much sooner than I think. I look at my oldest son, my old soul, the friend that came from in my heart to slide forth into this world a symbol of every wise thing in me.
He will be ten this year.
Where did the time go?
I love you and I love how you write out the hard things.
Thinking of you always,
Sara Sophia
Beautiful, Robin! You’re killing me though…mine’s just a sophomore, and it’s still killing me!
Remember dear one, that transition is emotional. It’s unchartered territory–good or bad, it’s new. There is the letting go of the old in order to embrace the new and that is more that a bit unsettling. So be emotional…just get it out before you go to the pop-secret display again. :0)
Hugs to you. I will need you to counsel me in a few years…
Oh Robin, this is beautiful. Really beautiful. I can’t imagine the day when I’ll be going through this…still six years away, but hurtling toward me, I know. Thanks for sharing your heart.
Does your daughter read your blog? What a gift you are giving her, writing these words! I am so grateful to you for sharing this journey and your heart thoughts. I hope I can speak so beautifully about my own daughters when the time comes.
Oh – my heart goes out to you! Mine started jr high and high school this year and that was hard. Just knowing how quickly time is passing. I feel your heart and understand – even though I’m not quite there yet.
darjenL, Yep…I totally understand :).
Shelley, I LOVE how you’re giving out of your void! That’s a wonderful example to others and serves your family as well :).
Sara Sophia, tender words from you strengthen me. Amazing, that. 🙂
Dawn, every word an encouragement. Thank you. Yes…let’s keep this conversation going for years :).
Katrina, keeping the end game in mind (which is really just another beginning) gives you awareness to savor the now. It’s so easy to wish time away, I’m glad to be a reminder to be fully present in the moments :).
Nicole, I doubt she’s had time to look lately! But, she doesn’t read often; and I have to be careful when I write about her (she’s very private). But I told her months ago writing helped me process; that it wasn’t about her, it’s about ME. I’m sure one day she’ll appreciate these words much more than today….but that’s years from now. Which is okay, ’cause I get her :).
Dionna, You aren’t gonna like this, but I swear I was where you are five minutes ago :).
sweet sorrow. lovely post.
Robin this is so beautiful – it brought tears to my eyes. Just yesterday my youngest turned one. As I wrote my own blog post, telling the future Camille all about herself at 12 months old, I found myself pondering and cursing the fleeting days for all three of my girls.
I really hope I can follow your example of seeing them grow and learning to let go as letting them fly.
Thanks so much for sharing.
Beautiful. Your words make me savor the busy littleness of my house now and remind me of what we are working towards.
Oh, there’s nothing like crying at the keyboard first thing in the morning! My precious oldest started first grade this year. I know we’ll blink twice and she’s off to college. My heart aches for you.
I will hug her so tightly when she wakes up, and later I will call my mother. Just because.
Pamela, I know that you know….
Ashley, I think it helps (or at least I HOPE it helps) to have someone a few years ahead of you encouraging you to SAVOR, to notice, to pay close attention. All those stinkin’ cliche’s are so true! I wish they weren’t!
McKt, Yaaaaeee! I write posts like these for two reasons: so I can remember, to encourage others :). Comments like yours (and others) tell me I’m on the right track :). Thank you!
Megan, Your last paragraph made my entire face smile. Especially the “callin’ your mother” part. 😀
Beautiful, Robin. You have such a way with words. You capture every mother’s heart in this post. ((hug))
My heart just twisted and turned. My oldest turned 10 a few weeks ago. Maybe because I’ve been so busy having babies and chasing toddlers in the years since, I am astonished to turn around and see the changes in her. She is still very much a girl. But she is on the cliff of womanhood.
Time moves so very fast. To be a mom is to swim in the bittersweet, I think.
My mama heart is preparing for this moment very soon and I felt your heart right through these words.
Wow…this is such a powerful post. I am not even a mom yet and it made my heart ache. I have something that makes it a possibility that I may not be able to have children. I am not trying yet but am afraid to try. The miracle of birth is something I want to experience but God may ask me to let go of that. Thank you for opening up your heart to us!
And here I am just thinking how hard I’m going to cry when I take my baby to preschool – how can he be old enough?
I’ve got 8 more years before my oldest is in college. I know that time is going to fly.
I said my goodbyes to my youngest on Monday night on the other side of the U.S. And yes, I cried. And back at work today, my first day back, I had to leave a meeting when I felt the tears well up again. I know it’s good and right, but it hurts.
@jenncallinghome (my website is out of order for the time being)
Just finding time to read this, Robin. I wanted to savor it. You got it absolutely right, and I’m sending a hug your way.
Dinnertime is the hardest for me. Our college girl is the life of our party around here, especially at dinner, and we all feel the void.
It’s funny. I didn’t cry when we dropped her off last year either. I held it together . . . until January. She came home for Christmas break and we all had such a wonderful time together, but when she left again I fell apart. I was falling asleep one January night, and before I knew it I was bawling. It hits you in funny ways and at funny times.
This says it all Robin, just as I experienced it 3 years ago.
xoxo
First of all, you have no idea how I jumped with excitement to see you left a message at The Asylum. Yippee !
Will not go into the details of the morning my oldest backed out of the driveway, put the car in “D,” and headed to college. I literally, literally, no joke, literally lay in the living room floor in the fetal position and cried like a baby.
Then this quote came to mind, “Come to the edge,’ He said. They said, ‘We are afraid.’ ‘Come to the edge,’ He said. They came. He pushed them…and they flew.”
— Guillaume Apollinaire
The quote wasn’t so much for her but for me. That I could function without her in the house. This after she had pushed and pulled me through Breast Cancer her senior year in high school along with her little sister. That I could walk to the edge and fly and watch her fly, too.
Love you galfriend. I can’t remember the last time I posted a comment on someone’s blog. You motivated me sistah.
Oh Robin, feeling the thump, thump from within and reading this at the same time was NOT a good combination…Big, ugly cry!
Beautifully written.
Why is it always the small things that light up all the corners of the big things? I have actually had some very emotional moments in the grocery store. This was really lovely and I know your daughter will one day appreciate your words. Time teaches us daughters how very precious our mothers hearts are, especially once we carry, sustain and nurture a baby of our own.
Three of my children have left the nest. I miss them all the time. One is heading to the Marines this fall. I cry about that already and he is not even gone! You are never prepared for them leaving.
Beautiful post, Robin.
Oh mercy! I nearly cried when you said saturday you let her go… OHHHH!!!!
I’m going through a little something like that. Only I’m on the oppisite side. I’m the child. And it still hurts! But it’s oh so beautiful… 🙂
When I went to college I had terrible moments of homesickness, and always wondered if my mom missed me.
Also, I tend to break down in grocery stores the most. I don’t know why, but I do. haha
Woman, you are making this pregnant woman emotional! I have been thinking of you often as your baby goes off to college.