On Being a Mom by Susan L.

  My children are all grown up now but I remember the day when swishy, blue fuzzy sleepers ruled or superhero jammies made heroes who rescued the unseen in terrible danger. Soloist singer, Rudolph role, school plays and events. Wheezing, squeaking clarinet that grew to have a rich and lovely sound. A squawking trumpet, not so much. The milestones that mark the days racing by. Prizes, failures, try agains, study, homework, assignments, report cards, disappointments, successes, graduations. It all seems so long ago but feels like it was yesterday.
  Simple holidays. Camping began in two pup tents becoming one large becoming the luxurious abode of a slightly musty pop up trailer that needed a couple of two by fours to make sure the roof didn't come crashing down in the night. To make sure all were safe. Boy rolling over and magically appearing outside on the grass looking a bit bewildered.
  Showers needed at the end of the endless summer day to wash away the layers of grime, a dusty baptism of freedom. The romance and unabashed acceptance between a four year old and a little girl he met two sites down. Peas in a pod they ran together.
  And fishing. My daughter loved to sit with a line in the water. Bait wasn't necessary. It was the moment, the doing nothing, the peace and still of the water. Oh, how I understood the magic of that. The boys? Big, tooth gapped grins. Feisty fighting sunfish catch all of two inches long photograph moments.
  Growing pains, flues, pneumonia, broken arm, stitched up chins. Ironically thankful at Christmas when my daughter got sick. It meant no one else was. Thankful she was there to help when the reverse was true and she looked after all of us. Her cooking the meal while I spent hours with a colicky horse even though it was her birthday. I was so very sorry.
  TV arguments: sports versus anything but. Special concession of a bedroom, tiny black and white for the hockey fan who had better pre-satellite reception in the attic anyways.
  Helping hands. I miss that sometimes when my own to do list has grown rather large. Chore rotation, responsibilities. The hated hauling wood for the stove. Loved the fire though, on a bitter February night. Melted, blackened back of a dress. So incredibly thankful it didn't catch fire, that my daughter wasn't burned.
  Somehow I turned around and my little girl is a woman, my boys are men. It means goodbyes. Not forever ones but marking that the rules have changed. An empty nest, grateful my children are doing well with their beloveds. Grateful they survived the terrible turmoil, tests and trials of childhood and youth.
  Empty nest: the process of recognising mistakes made somehow wishing I could have done better, been more. I wished I had hugged them more. I wish we'd gotten a dishwasher while my daughter still lived at home (that was the deal for not having to help with barn chores, she looked after the kitchen) or satellite TV when my hockey fan son still occupied a spot on the couch.  I wish we'd gotten a pool for us, not the ducks; the one thing my youngest always wanted. I wish so much that things could have been different, less hard, less volatile, less walking on eggshell existence.
  As much as I was sad to see them go, I delighted and rejoiced in the fact that they were leaving behind a not so great environment, an environment I was unable to change.
  Empty nest. Letting go of regrets, embracing new roles, a new life, a new identity. I have grown to understand I did the best that I could with the tools I had at the time. Sometimes I actually believe it.
  What truly matters is I will always love my children so very much it hurts.
  "Enter into His gates with thanksgiving, and into His courts with praise, be thankful to Him and bless His name." Ps 100:4