They are with you, yet they belong not to you.
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Your children are not your children. They are the sons and daughters of life's longing for itself. They come through you, but not from you.
And though they are with you, yet they belong not to you.
You may house their bodies, but not souls.
You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.
You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.
~Khalil Gilbran
My children are growing up. We all know this happens, is going to happen – even when we are pregnant, we start thinking, planning: will they be astronauts, concert pianists, writers, maybe win the Nobel Peace Prize? We wonder where they’ll go to college, maybe even play the game of what that will feel like – that far-off so-called “empty nest” feeling our parents experienced when we “grew up”; maybe feel that sinking feeling in the pit of our stomachs – but quickly we can brush it away, as we bring baby to the breast, and settle back in to shared sleep. All is right with the world when your tiny infant is asleep on your chest.
When they’re babies, we have so much vested in their day-to-day care: breastfeeding, diaper changing, clothing, sleeping, playing. As they get a bit older, we start to offer some of that care to others around us – extended family, close friends, perhaps a nanny or daycare providers. Still, they return to us, completely ours, tiny, dependent. Where they go, what they do, even how their own messages are interpreted – is up to us.
It is around the three year mark where I started to really realize that my children… weren’t really mine. Of course, they are always a part of me – they forever are entwined with my DNA, my memories, and our physical connection, where they grew in my womb, is for all time etched into their little tummies. But they are only mine now because I want them… and they want me.
But sometimes, they don’t. Sometimes, they push away from me. They relish in their freedom – swinging, running, playing… hitting, back-talking. They too, are realizing they aren’t mine; that they are their own. They can choose their clothing – and put it on their own bodies. They can walk out the door and down the block – and come back. They can choose which book they want to read – and read it. They can realize they are hungry – and make themselves food. They can picture a grand Lego structure in their minds – and build it… while I simply watch. They can choose to be angry – and how they want to express that. My son, he knows how to whistle. My daughter, she knows how to read music and play the piano with both hands. I sit back, amazed, yet observing – Montessori-style – at these children who are so self-directed, strong-willed… and entirely themselves. They know who they are while I’m left to I wonder where they came from; where they are going; what their purpose is, and will be. I feel them pushing away from me. Sometimes I feel myself pulling them back. I want to pull back harder, but... I know I can’t; I shouldn’t. So I observe, and offer assistance when requested.
I remember when I used to be able to pick them up, swaddle them, nurse them, soothe their crying with the simplest things: milk, motion, singing. I can’t do that anymore. Their needs are bigger, the solutions more complicated, the problems more difficult: a friend said something that hurt feelings, a worry over when we will die – or when they will die, concern that we have more than others and why is that, thoughts about disease and hunger and pollution, consideration about what they’ll be as adults, about WHY we – their parents – do what we do, or have done what we’ve done as adults, wondering exactly how and when and why babies are made. My answers to their questions are necessarily more intricate and complex now than they ever were… and I am starting to realize that my answers aren’t always enough. My experience isn’t necessarily the best example. Their teachers help answer questions, as does the internet, and books, and… they are growing up.
At night, my children still ask for me to lie with them. They snuggle in – one on each side of me – like little puppies. Baby shuttles docking with the Mothership. I feel like they recharge at that time – lights off, no pressure. We do a lot of talking there in the dark, along with cuddling, resting, relaxing back into familiar baby-mama mode that some days I miss so much. I treasure the moments they choose to return to me – ask to play, request my help on a project, want me to snuggle them to sleep. My children are growing up, and I with them. It’s an amazing journey – one for which I don’t always feel adequately prepared – but for which I’m so glad I signed on.