Sitting in an empty car, outside the dorms where my oldest
child will be living, I remember.
I remember going to bed every
single night when the kids were little, filled with regret for the things that happened during the day,
filled with longing to be with my children, enjoy them, hug them, now that they were sleeping in bed and it was too late. Sometimes I went to their rooms, watching them sleep, and I
mourned missed opportunities. Their upturned faces would flash through my mind
as sleep stayed far away, and I would rethink all of my, “just a minutes.” In
the dark hours of the night, my earlier impatience seemed ridiculously based.
My anger, inconceivable. How could I raise my voice at such innocence? Returning to bed, watching my husband’s sleeping form, I considered his regrets. Surely he
had none. He played, he laughed, he guided with love and kindness.
Looking back, I still feel that pain, those missed opportunities,
especially now, knowing they are irretrievable. But I also see more than I
could during those days. I see tired. I see pregnant. I see many hours on my
own during my husband’s law school and employment. I see desperation to prove
myself, to become, to serve, to please. Six children in eleven years. I see
club feet and eye patches and infant kidney trouble, infections. I see the last one to eat cold dinner, grocery trips with crying children, prying eyes, headaches; I see late nights and early mornings. I see lots of 3:00 AM. I see effort,
such great striving, work and intent. I see desire. I see the trenches. I see a
pure heart.
And joy. I see lots of fun. I relive memories of parks, and
friends, and trips downtown to visit a monument or the statue of Einstein. I see
the inside of our car, driving somewhere, everyone singing. I see laughing
faces. I see Candyland, UNO, GoFish. I see books, so many books. I hear the
words in my mind, “You fed your fish too much? Too bad.” Or “Goodnight cow
jumping over the moon.”
Just the other day, we were quoting, “Big brown bear, blue
bull…” while we laughed about some of the fun books we used to read together. Just
the other day, no one needed me to buckle them in their car seat. We were
laughing about a hidden Pokemon. We were watching a movie together. We were
swimming in the pool, and I didn’t worry anyone would drown. We were driving
down the East coast from New York to Florida. We were hiking the Narrows. We were gathered in prayer.
Just the other day, my daughter and I packed up her room,
getting ready for her first semester of college and we came across a box of her
baby clothes. Her eyes opened wide, almost in amusement as tears coursed down
my face immediately, without warning, and I quickly closed that box. Bad timing.
She’s expecting me to cry a little. I’m expecting to cry a lot.
But I wasn’t expecting this flash of life before my eyes. I
wasn’t expecting to question all those days and nights when she was little. I
am hit, completely unprepared by a wall of insecurity. Does she know how to
iron a shirt? Is that a silly worry? What about all those sleepless nights of
regret? Is she forever less than she could be because of some mistake of her
mother, my mistake?
And the biggest question of all, does she have enough? Was I
enough? All of these principles, these patterns and teachings I have instilled
in her since she was in my belly, is it enough? As her mother, am I enough?
And the answer is no.
And yes.
I am not enough. And even though I most certainly could have
been better, even my very best self is not enough. I was not meant to be enough
by myself.
But she knows in whom to place her faith. And that is enough. I pray it is enough. Because
I have trusted that it will be enough when the time comes for my children to
fly. I have spent my life preparing and teaching and becoming, with the assurance
that it will be enough. And even now, as I turn the ignition key and pull out of the parking lot, a quiet
assurance comforts, and I sense, with a kind of hopeful exhilaration that it
will be.
