The July 4th weekend brought an end to our longest planned vacation of the summer. We spent the first part of the week without kids on an island off the coast of NC, eating, drinking, and lazing around with a large group of old friends. We then returned home for a stay-cation at the house with our kids, sleeping late, eating donuts, going to the pool, and staring at screens for as long as our hearts desired. Our kids are old enough now to sleep straight through to 7:00, or to entertain themselves with an IPad for an additional ½ hour or so after waking while mom goes back to sleep—but this practice is generally reserved for the weekends. This was the first extended period of time we’d been able to enjoy extra sleep in more than 5 years. It was glorious. But as they say about “all good things”, vacation was soon over and we returned to business as usual on July 6th.
I’ve always taken that return to the routine pretty hard. I used to actually cry at the end of Christmas Break as an adult when I had to go back to work in January—not because I hated my career, but because so many parts of the job were completely overwhelming back at the beginning, when there was so much I still didn’t know. Once I had kids, “going back” was emotional for totally different reasons. Sure, I was a little sad to drop my kids at daycare after having them all to myself for a good long time, but I’d be lying if I denied the secret sweetness in that. As any parent will admit, “work” is often a “vacation” from your kids after dealing with them all day, every day for a stretch. But more depressing than that initial drive to daycare after an extended vacay was the idea of how different the kids would be this time next year. Holidays and vacations tend to fall about the same time every year, with 6 months between Christmas and summer. When you see the wrinkled, red, helpless baby you had in June, smiling and laughing and bursting with personality by New Year’s, you have to accept how quickly and constantly your reality will be changing from now on. Mom and Dad will look gradually older or fatter or more tired as the decade moves on—but that kid will be a different person as soon as next year. And that’s amazing for a parent to watch. But pretty sad as well.
We've been lucky to briefly vacation away from our kids almost annually since the first one burst onto the scene 5 years ago. And while it IS wickedly luxurious to get away, to completely abandon your post, and pretend to be that carefree, childless person who existed such a short time ago--I start to feel a bit like the focal point of a Silver Alert by the end of it. Like I've left something important behind and I need to get back to where I came from, but I suddenly can't remember where that is. Is it this crazy, lazy place where I shower whenever I feel like it, visit the toilet by myself, eat languid sit-down dinners, and enjoy adult beverages amid grown-up conversation, freely inserting miniature F-bombs for emphasis at will without any fear of repercussion? Or is it that warm, fuzzy world of security blankets and snuggle toys, night-lights and good night kisses....of rigid rules and schedules, of power struggles and failed behavior incentives, of bickering and ungratefulness--and ass-wiping? SO MUCH ass-wiping? Both places feel so familiar, but--after having the time to actually slow down and think for a minute--it's hard to imagine myself belonging entirely to either. Nevertheless, I ultimately wind up missing my kids--and although they may have pushed me to the brink of my sanity prior to the trip, I'm eventually eager to see them. And by the end of that long weekend, both my liver and my waistline can readily agree with what my heart knew all along. That I belong with them.
This year, we drove up the driveway of Ray's parents' house upon returning from our trip to find the boys splashing in a plastic pool, wearing wet Star Wars and Cars character underwear and big smiles on their faces. As I stepped out of the truck, the younger one saw me at a distance and froze like a deer in headlights...before taking off at a full sprint and launching himself to embrace my legs. The older one was a little more aloof about it, taking his time in getting to me, but then giving me a warmer, more sincere hug than he's usually willing to submit to these days, with his long, skinny limbs, and increasingly independent spirit. Tears welled in my eyes and I was so grateful to be back with them--but instantly ached over how different this scene would be next year and the year after, knowing this "them" and this moment would be over almost as soon as that welcoming embrace.
The hardest part of getting older isn't the aging, but the aching. There's the literal aching that comes from the gradual realization that you can't eat, drink, move, or stay up late like you used to. But there's also the figurative aching, that comes from the simultaneous and contradictory longings we experience as adults--yearning for freedom but thriving in responsibility, eagerly anticipating the future but pining for parts of the past, constantly welcoming a "new normal" but reluctantly letting go of people and places and periods in our lives and the lives of our children. That "letting go" never seems to let up. There's always something to send off or pack away or give up and release out into the wild. We spend so much of our lives establishing ownership of ourselves, our loved ones, and our place in the world--and the rest of the time letting it go. So it's not the aging. It's the aching. That's how I know I'm getting older--and I'm grateful, but hateful. Because it's always easier to appreciate the beauty of the forest once you've made it out of the woods.
My oldest started kindergarten the very week after our biggest vacation of the summer ended...it's a big and happy milestone, one that he's so ready for. But it is the end of an era--and a brave new frontier that's sure to have all the soaring highs and dismal lows the first 5 years dished out. But ultimately, it's a celebration, right? And even if my heart aches a little for the baby he no longer is, I know damn well the parts of his infancy and toddlerhood I'd rather go screaming into the hills before volunteering to experience again. So let's pour a little toast out to my younger self, who survived those early years of motherhood to embrace the bittersweet triumph and tragedy of moving on. And may I one day master the art of living in the moment, because the present is one fleeting son-of-a-bitch.
I’ve always taken that return to the routine pretty hard. I used to actually cry at the end of Christmas Break as an adult when I had to go back to work in January—not because I hated my career, but because so many parts of the job were completely overwhelming back at the beginning, when there was so much I still didn’t know. Once I had kids, “going back” was emotional for totally different reasons. Sure, I was a little sad to drop my kids at daycare after having them all to myself for a good long time, but I’d be lying if I denied the secret sweetness in that. As any parent will admit, “work” is often a “vacation” from your kids after dealing with them all day, every day for a stretch. But more depressing than that initial drive to daycare after an extended vacay was the idea of how different the kids would be this time next year. Holidays and vacations tend to fall about the same time every year, with 6 months between Christmas and summer. When you see the wrinkled, red, helpless baby you had in June, smiling and laughing and bursting with personality by New Year’s, you have to accept how quickly and constantly your reality will be changing from now on. Mom and Dad will look gradually older or fatter or more tired as the decade moves on—but that kid will be a different person as soon as next year. And that’s amazing for a parent to watch. But pretty sad as well.
We've been lucky to briefly vacation away from our kids almost annually since the first one burst onto the scene 5 years ago. And while it IS wickedly luxurious to get away, to completely abandon your post, and pretend to be that carefree, childless person who existed such a short time ago--I start to feel a bit like the focal point of a Silver Alert by the end of it. Like I've left something important behind and I need to get back to where I came from, but I suddenly can't remember where that is. Is it this crazy, lazy place where I shower whenever I feel like it, visit the toilet by myself, eat languid sit-down dinners, and enjoy adult beverages amid grown-up conversation, freely inserting miniature F-bombs for emphasis at will without any fear of repercussion? Or is it that warm, fuzzy world of security blankets and snuggle toys, night-lights and good night kisses....of rigid rules and schedules, of power struggles and failed behavior incentives, of bickering and ungratefulness--and ass-wiping? SO MUCH ass-wiping? Both places feel so familiar, but--after having the time to actually slow down and think for a minute--it's hard to imagine myself belonging entirely to either. Nevertheless, I ultimately wind up missing my kids--and although they may have pushed me to the brink of my sanity prior to the trip, I'm eventually eager to see them. And by the end of that long weekend, both my liver and my waistline can readily agree with what my heart knew all along. That I belong with them.
This year, we drove up the driveway of Ray's parents' house upon returning from our trip to find the boys splashing in a plastic pool, wearing wet Star Wars and Cars character underwear and big smiles on their faces. As I stepped out of the truck, the younger one saw me at a distance and froze like a deer in headlights...before taking off at a full sprint and launching himself to embrace my legs. The older one was a little more aloof about it, taking his time in getting to me, but then giving me a warmer, more sincere hug than he's usually willing to submit to these days, with his long, skinny limbs, and increasingly independent spirit. Tears welled in my eyes and I was so grateful to be back with them--but instantly ached over how different this scene would be next year and the year after, knowing this "them" and this moment would be over almost as soon as that welcoming embrace.
The hardest part of getting older isn't the aging, but the aching. There's the literal aching that comes from the gradual realization that you can't eat, drink, move, or stay up late like you used to. But there's also the figurative aching, that comes from the simultaneous and contradictory longings we experience as adults--yearning for freedom but thriving in responsibility, eagerly anticipating the future but pining for parts of the past, constantly welcoming a "new normal" but reluctantly letting go of people and places and periods in our lives and the lives of our children. That "letting go" never seems to let up. There's always something to send off or pack away or give up and release out into the wild. We spend so much of our lives establishing ownership of ourselves, our loved ones, and our place in the world--and the rest of the time letting it go. So it's not the aging. It's the aching. That's how I know I'm getting older--and I'm grateful, but hateful. Because it's always easier to appreciate the beauty of the forest once you've made it out of the woods.
My oldest started kindergarten the very week after our biggest vacation of the summer ended...it's a big and happy milestone, one that he's so ready for. But it is the end of an era--and a brave new frontier that's sure to have all the soaring highs and dismal lows the first 5 years dished out. But ultimately, it's a celebration, right? And even if my heart aches a little for the baby he no longer is, I know damn well the parts of his infancy and toddlerhood I'd rather go screaming into the hills before volunteering to experience again. So let's pour a little toast out to my younger self, who survived those early years of motherhood to embrace the bittersweet triumph and tragedy of moving on. And may I one day master the art of living in the moment, because the present is one fleeting son-of-a-bitch.
Ohhh... how sweet. It sounds like you had a good vacation. But it also sounds like you missed your boys. Well I'm glad you had fun. I'm sure as the years go by you'll be sadder and sadder that your boys are growing up. But like you said you'll be happy when they can take care of themselves for a little while so you can sleep in.
ReplyDelete