As my adult children wing their way back ‘round the world, I sit in a somewhat idle silence trying desperately to quiet my inner turmoil. While most of my friends enjoy the privilege of complaining about their children’s presence, I revel in the few opportunities I have to see my kids.
We’ve been able to spend at least seven days together twice a year since they moved away to college and jobs, but only our Christmas get-togethers are planned and paid for in advance. Second visits have always come about incidentally, usually because their father is moved around by employment and we are able sneak in a visit between points A and B.
I go through this period of melancholy every time, and I know from all my husband’s military deployments that this, too, shall pass. I know better than to relive the moments we spent at the dining room table playing Apples to Apples. I know not to hover too long over the beds where they slept or take in a deep breath through the pillows where they lay their heads. I also know that no matter how hard I try to fight it, my heart will overrule my mind.
I’ve known a lot of people over two decades, specifically mothers, who spent 18 years looking forward to the day their children would move out; and without a visible flip-flop of the heart, they waved goodbye and didn’t wallow in the aftermath of their child’s absence.
Not me.
I don’t mean “not me” as in “I’m a better parent than those mothers because I feel this way.” I mean “not me” as in “Sometimes I think there’s something wrong with me because I feel this way.”
I’m told I may have trust issues, that I don’t entirely believe in the way I raised my kids, and that these doubts contribute to the ache in my heart and fuel my concern about them when they’re not near. It’s worth thinking about, I suppose; but then I remember the twist in household moves that allowed me to live in the same city as my children for all of summer 2007.
Article comments
1 - Joanne Huspek
Diana, I feel your pain. When the first one left that summer, we couldn't wait for him to come home. (Of course, we spent a lot of time crying that summer too.) The first Christmas when he decided not to come home, I was crushed.
It was much easier to say goodbye to my daughter, and I don't know why. It's not that I loved her less, it was that we were both ready. I thought I was going to get depressed, but it was strangely freeing. My husband and I could be a couple once again, and that felt good.
With the economy doing so poorly, I might have to keep those bedrooms an option for my little birdies.
2 - diana hartman
is it a matter of who leaves the nest first? my daughter (the younger of the older two) moved first...i was heartbroken and wouldn't get out of bed for a week...when my son moved, i was ready for it (or exhausted and out of tears?) and it didn't drag me down the hall back to my pillow...i expected it would - and stocked my bedside table accordingly, but it didn't come to pass...i love them equally, although not for the same reasons...they're two different people; so very different people...
i guess i thought (prayed, hoped, begged of the universe) that it would get easier with time, but no...they come to visit or i visit them and it's just as painful to leave their sides (or have my side left) as it was the last time...
3 - Joanne Huspek
Interesting to think about, Diana. I'm finding that relationships with adult children are more complex than when they were younger. Perhaps as mothers, we will always feel conflicting emotions.
Don't worry. They'll come back. :-)
4 - Teri Centner
Your husband deployed to Antarctica? Cool!
Just kidding. Although I can't even pretend to know how you feel, you've done a good job describing it. (hug hug)