Letting Go

My youngest, and last little one, is off to kindergarten next Monday. This is not his first time to school, as he was away from me last year in PreK. Yet this still feels momentous. I worry. I worry that he is too young, and that his self-esteem and ability to keep up will suffer. I worry that it will be too much for him, that he’ll be labeled the “bad kid”, and won’t thrive. . I fear that the zeal for life and nature and learning that I see in him will be dulled, or that his child-like exuberance will be lost.

When I am anxious about a situation, I struggle to be at peace with my decision, any decision. No matter what course I decide on, I can still find a myriad of ways it could be ominous, and feel compelled to change directions. Earlier this year, I saw a teacher I respect in Walgreens, and we had a God-appointment in the skin care section. She knew I’d been struggling over what to do for my son this coming year, and asked how I was doing with everything. I launched into my concerns and uncertainties, and tears were poised and ready to roll from my eyes. She earnestly spoke to me, “I see those tears, and your eagerness to get it all right, and I see myself. I was so overwrought, when my kids were young, about everything. I urge you, don’t choose that path. Choose a course, release them onto it. Pray for them, love them, give them nutritious meals and let go. It WILL be all right.” I should have tape recorded that conversation and made it my mantra.

Change, in its essence, embodies both loss and gain. The losses I am feeling are of the comfort of our simple routine, of the noisy and constant companionship of little ones, of the openness of days to fill together as we see fit. I'm also feeling a loss of my sense of self. I'm well-acquainted by now, with the demands of being a full-time mom: of hauling my children everywhere, of scheduling park days and play dates, of feeling continually overextended and somehow more worthwhile because of it. It leaves me with the question I haven’t been afforded in a long time: What will I fill days with, now that they are not filled for me? And at the base of this is my greatest fear: that the "best years" of having my children are behind me, and that somehow I haven't treasured them or maximized them enough. If I am not careful, I can lead a morose existence, lamenting each change my children undergo, each loss of what we leave behind.

Without negating the losses, I’d like to also embrace the gains. Yes, I wonder what he and I may lose. Yet my child will be learning to read, and growing in confidence and independence. We'll have much to share of our days when we are together. I’ll be giving myself permission to thrive, guilt-free, when not every one of my moments is spoken for. I can explore my skills as a teacher, by volunteering and substituting, and it will be the same hours as my children. I can seek out new clients for my ESL tutoring business. And it is not as if, the years of morning snuggles and giggles, before school recess, debriefing over cookies and carrots, reading at bedtime, and weekend excitement, and flat-out exhaustion, are anywhere near to an end. And when they are, there will be losses and gains to navigate then as well.

Is the poignancy of letting go done once and for all? Or is it ever done at all? Letting go occurs first at birth, when the umbilical cord is cut. There are first steps, and weaning, loose teeth, and first days of school. There are graduations and senior slide shows that make moms want to break into the ugly cry. There are walks down the aisle, and down the runway. And I know mothers who still view their grown children as their own heart, walking around outside their body. So, all I am feeling now, I will be feeling again, and probably magnified. I have to remind myself that the purpose of raising children is to launch them into God’s world, not secure beings to meet my emotional needs.

So by your grace, God, I’m letting go.