Of Dogs and Empty Arms
Today I stood at our front door and watched Micah pull away with the kids, headed for school. The house seemed suddenly very quiet, and I thought, "Maybe we need a dog. There's no one to fill this space with me." It felt so lonely. And then my mind wandered to my neighbor, who has a toddler and a newborn. I remember those days so well. What I wouldn't have given in that season for an hour in a quiet house! I knew then that I'd have these thoughts some day, but how quickly they've come.
I love this season with my kids. I love the laughter, the grown up (or growing up, anyway) conversations. I love that they can all dress themselves, brush their own teeth, tie their own shoes. They need so much less of me, and yet in new ways, so much more. My arms are not yet empty, and for that I'm increasingly grateful. When I sit, one of them never fails to scamper up into my lap and press their body close to me. I soak up those moments, because I know that even those are drawing to a close.
It's hard not to grieve sometimes. Not all of life has turned out exactly as we'd anticipated. Not that I regret it, or that it hasn't become something beautiful in its own way. I had all of the boys' years before school to spend with them, and I loved that time. Once they were in school, mine was the last face they saw in the morning, and the first they saw in the afternoon. We filled our hours with time together, and I was there for all of it. Then the opportunity to move back to Indiana presented itself, and we were more than glad to be closer to family. That transition meant a change in our family dynamic, and I became the full-time worker while Micah was the one to fill the hours at home. It was wonderful in a new way. He'd never had so much time with the kids, and I loved watching him with them. But I'd be lying if I said it didn't sting a little each time a teacher failed to recognize me at a parent meeting, each time they shared an inside joke I hadn't been privy to. Now a new season has begun. Micah, for at least this month, is teaching full-time. Oh, how grateful I am to my in-laws for watching Cora! They've spent hours with her, and she's loved it as much as they have! She comes home with stories and smiles and can't wait for the next adventure! I never lived close to my grandparents growing up, so I'm so thankful that she gets to sit at their feet and learn from them, that she has so many beautiful memories with them. They have been literally a God-send, and I can't imagine a more wonderful way for her to spend her days when I'm working.
But this past week I picked her up from school on a day she'd expected to be with them. She sat in the back seat fighting tears. She wouldn't talk. Disappointment was etched on every line of her little face. Oh, how my heart broke. She wanted to be with them, not with me. I know the fickle mind of a four-year-old, and it wasn't long before she was covering me with kisses and whispering, "I love you, Mama" into my ear. But for those few moments what seized me was a strange mix of grief, panic, and deepest heartache. I was desperate to keep her from slipping away from me!
I've had many hours to think over that afternoon. Was this the normal progression of things? Someday their friends will be more important in their lives, and that is a normal stage of development. But how, when they need me so much less in some ways, can I keep them close? I can't be with them all the time anymore, and I'm not the primary voice in their lives. Oh, how quickly that came! But how can I still be a voice they seek? How do we make this shift?
What my children need from me is no longer the basics of survival. They can feed themselves, change themselves, walk for themselves. They've mastered the simpler parts of physical survival. But what remains for them is learning to navigate the deeper waters of life itself. I don't have all the hours of the day to teach them these things now, but I have the evenings, after school. I have the quiet moments before they drift off to sleep. I have the weekend mornings when one of them runs an errand alone with me. The teaching, the bonding, happens in the midst of the activity now, but it has to happen with the same intentionality that it took to teach them to tie their shoes. They don't need me less; they need me differently. This season is a little more empty, physically speaking. But now I've entered the season of reaching their hearts, not just caring for their bodies. If ever they needed their parents, it's in the coming years.
I needed to have a purpose today. I needed to still have a role to play. Change is always hard, but change for a mother is always mingled with grief and guilt. I cling to them when they throw their little arms around me these days, as I should. But knowing I still have a role--a huge role-- in this season is balm for my aching, often-empty arms.
But, really, maybe it's time for a dog. Someone has to fill this empty house with me...
I love this season with my kids. I love the laughter, the grown up (or growing up, anyway) conversations. I love that they can all dress themselves, brush their own teeth, tie their own shoes. They need so much less of me, and yet in new ways, so much more. My arms are not yet empty, and for that I'm increasingly grateful. When I sit, one of them never fails to scamper up into my lap and press their body close to me. I soak up those moments, because I know that even those are drawing to a close.
It's hard not to grieve sometimes. Not all of life has turned out exactly as we'd anticipated. Not that I regret it, or that it hasn't become something beautiful in its own way. I had all of the boys' years before school to spend with them, and I loved that time. Once they were in school, mine was the last face they saw in the morning, and the first they saw in the afternoon. We filled our hours with time together, and I was there for all of it. Then the opportunity to move back to Indiana presented itself, and we were more than glad to be closer to family. That transition meant a change in our family dynamic, and I became the full-time worker while Micah was the one to fill the hours at home. It was wonderful in a new way. He'd never had so much time with the kids, and I loved watching him with them. But I'd be lying if I said it didn't sting a little each time a teacher failed to recognize me at a parent meeting, each time they shared an inside joke I hadn't been privy to. Now a new season has begun. Micah, for at least this month, is teaching full-time. Oh, how grateful I am to my in-laws for watching Cora! They've spent hours with her, and she's loved it as much as they have! She comes home with stories and smiles and can't wait for the next adventure! I never lived close to my grandparents growing up, so I'm so thankful that she gets to sit at their feet and learn from them, that she has so many beautiful memories with them. They have been literally a God-send, and I can't imagine a more wonderful way for her to spend her days when I'm working.
But this past week I picked her up from school on a day she'd expected to be with them. She sat in the back seat fighting tears. She wouldn't talk. Disappointment was etched on every line of her little face. Oh, how my heart broke. She wanted to be with them, not with me. I know the fickle mind of a four-year-old, and it wasn't long before she was covering me with kisses and whispering, "I love you, Mama" into my ear. But for those few moments what seized me was a strange mix of grief, panic, and deepest heartache. I was desperate to keep her from slipping away from me!
I've had many hours to think over that afternoon. Was this the normal progression of things? Someday their friends will be more important in their lives, and that is a normal stage of development. But how, when they need me so much less in some ways, can I keep them close? I can't be with them all the time anymore, and I'm not the primary voice in their lives. Oh, how quickly that came! But how can I still be a voice they seek? How do we make this shift?
What my children need from me is no longer the basics of survival. They can feed themselves, change themselves, walk for themselves. They've mastered the simpler parts of physical survival. But what remains for them is learning to navigate the deeper waters of life itself. I don't have all the hours of the day to teach them these things now, but I have the evenings, after school. I have the quiet moments before they drift off to sleep. I have the weekend mornings when one of them runs an errand alone with me. The teaching, the bonding, happens in the midst of the activity now, but it has to happen with the same intentionality that it took to teach them to tie their shoes. They don't need me less; they need me differently. This season is a little more empty, physically speaking. But now I've entered the season of reaching their hearts, not just caring for their bodies. If ever they needed their parents, it's in the coming years.
I needed to have a purpose today. I needed to still have a role to play. Change is always hard, but change for a mother is always mingled with grief and guilt. I cling to them when they throw their little arms around me these days, as I should. But knowing I still have a role--a huge role-- in this season is balm for my aching, often-empty arms.
But, really, maybe it's time for a dog. Someone has to fill this empty house with me...
