A Visceral Love
School started this week. My youngest, now a Kindergartener, bopping through those doors makes me an empty nester for 3 long days. I know glasses should be clinking, and mothers at this stage are celebrating around the world, but I’m not on board quite yet.
The tether that once circulated oxygen and nutrients to each of them in utero has long been severed but the connection I feel to them is visceral.
***
Definition:
vis·cer·al
/ˈvis(ə)rəl/
Adj. : felt in or as if in the internal organs of the body, relating to deep inward feelings rather than to the intellect.
Used in a sentence:
I have a visceral reaction against egg salad.
I can argue that my hatred of snakes may not be rational, but boy is it visceral.
Sprawled out on a picnic blanket with my boys, firing off our interpretations of the white puffy marshmallow clouds above us, I experience a visceral sense of awe and wonder at the beauty of nature.
***
I feel my youngest tentatively pull away, releasing his grip as we meander through the school building doors. His little still-sausage fingers slipping out from the security of my grasp. The action surprising me. I assumed I’d be peeling him off my body at the entrance. A scene I replayed for weeks before this day wondering how to circumvent an embarrassing moment that hadn’t yet occurred. Once again, I underestimated my child.
He caught the eye of his Kindergarten teacher and never looked back at me. I watched him lock hands with her, sidling his body in close. The moment was intimate, and I felt out of place. Sensing I was no longer needed, I turned to my older son, but he was gone. Not one to ever bother with hugs or kisses, he had already climbed the stairs to find his cubby in the new third grade classroom. In longing for a “goodbye” from one, I missed the other entirely.
Realizing, after the moment had passed, I invested much more in this handoff of security than they did. I turned around slowly and faced the door to leave. A sea of children no longer in the care of their parents rushed around me like water around a shell on the beach. Swallowing hard on the ball that had taken up residence in my throat, I walked out.
Prophylactically, I wore my running gear to school drop-off, hoping to stave off my sadness by staying out of doors. I took off running for the closest set of mountains from their school. At the fourth or fifth switchback to the summit, when I triumphantly thought I had escaped my sadness, the flood of tears let loose a wave that shook me to a stop. If there were animals near they may have mistaken my sobs for one of them.
It could have been the runner's euphoria that released the dam of my pent up anxieties, but who am I kidding? Motherhood, at least for me, awakens a visceral love that infuses even the smallest moments with intense feeling. I began to admonish myself for the tears, you should be grateful your children are flourishing. Be happy they are happy! But then I stopped.
Couldn’t I feel both emotions at the same time, a deep sadness that an era was ending and and immense joy that they were thriving? We are, as mothers, playing a game of constant balance. We teach our children to sit on the potty and just please go pee! Tears of frustration and anger are shed. We want to rip our hair out or maybe just the carpet. Hours are spent mulling over the how-to books. A month goes by and click, they bounce up from the seat one day, and strut around carrying their potty of poo with pride to show you. Every ounce of anguish we might have had morphs to cheers of joy in a brief second. You did it! I am so proud of you! Well done! I remember looking back at how far we’d come and realizing I may never change another diaper, and in that moment I was both elated yet mournful.
Wiping the salty tears from my eyes, I take a deep breath and stare down the rocky path ahead. I feel content in this moment, knowing I can hold both the sadness with the joy. Though at one time we were inseparable, I count on my hands the school-age years I still have left with my sons. The number doesn't feel quite enough.
Like waves in the ocean, our children swim out to a vast sea of opportunity and growth with each new milestone they reach. The years go by and I find myself getting more acquainted with sitting on the beach instead of wading out hand in hand, swinging them up onto my hip, placing my back between the sea and my sons in protection. I’m learning to stand by their side instead. I’m learning to breathe a little again. Maybe even let go of the hand that is slowly changing from one that fits into my palm to one that feels stronger than my own.
