Before I can even utter a farewell or wish them a good day, they’re off, darting through the throngs of fellow children and parents. Just as they blend into the mass of kids surging through the school entrance, I catch sight of their hands clasping each other. They don’t wait for one to initiate; they grasp each other simultaneously before vanishing from my sight.
I pause for a moment, stretching on my toes in hopes of catching a glimpse of their dark hair or vibrant green backpacks. If I could just spot a fragment of them before they fade away, I’d be able to send a final good wish and an invisible embrace to accompany them into their day. But the sea of children between us makes that impossible.
I find myself wishing for these fleeting moments to linger a bit longer, yet such a desire feels futile against the whirlwind energy inherent in my two boys. Even during their bickering and complaining—those quintessential aspects of childhood that are both visible and audible—I yearn for time to slow down.
In these instances, I witness my children deep in the transformative journey of becoming their own individuals, navigating the complexities of the world around them, asking questions, and honing their internal moral compasses. It’s akin to drawing, where lines and smudges gradually give way to three-dimensional forms on the page. My kids are coming into sharper focus.
In the past, there were countless moments I wished to fast-forward through—the relentless physical demands of parenting. The cycle of changing diapers, feeding, burping, and battling sleepless nights seemed unending. While others were eager to freeze those sweet moments of baby softness, I was apprehensive of being completely consumed by my little ones, fearing I would be lost in the perpetual embrace of chubby cheeks and rolls.
I never played with dolls as a child; stuffed animals were my companions, but I never pretended to mother them. The fear of motherhood gripped me when my first child was born. Whenever I could break free from his grasp, I would escape the confines of our apartment, bursting out into the world, still smelling of sour milk. The act of walking away was liberating, yet each second that passed before I had to return felt like bricks piling on my chest. Sometimes I fantasized about continuing to walk without ever looking back.
When my son reached 16 months, my husband left for a business trip. Just hours after he departed, the weight of my son’s clinginess and my anxiety became suffocating. I felt as if I could hardly breathe. I carried my son to his crib, closed the door, and reached for my phone.
“I can’t take this,” were the first words I uttered when my husband answered. “I can’t handle it! He won’t stop crying. It’s driving me insane!” Those words burned deep within me—raw and painful, yet undeniably true. “If he doesn’t stop, I don’t know what I’ll do.”
After our conversation, my husband booked the next flight home. Those were days when I wished to skip ahead, desperate to move past those overwhelming stages for the sake of my own sanity and my family’s well-being. Perhaps rushing through those times allowed me to reach this current phase, where I feel less like I’m playing a role as a mother and the anxiety no longer lingers like a bitter taste. I now actively resist that relentless push forward that has driven me through these parenting years, not just for my own sake but for my children’s as well.
At school pickup, I see my children reemerging from the crowd just as swiftly as they had left in the morning. As we stroll home, I am delighted to hear them easily chatting and playfully chasing each other down the sidewalk. A smile spreads across my face as I realize I feel a sense of calm. We have found our rhythm. We take a detour to the playground for a game of tag—after all, there’s no rush to get anywhere.
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In summary, parenting is a journey filled with moments that can often feel overwhelming. Yet, it is essential to recognize the beauty in those fleeting instances, as they mark the evolution of our children into their own unique selves.