There was an almost audible click in our family this spring when Jude turned 5. The gears, perched for so long at that place of leaving the baby years behind, finally slipped over and settled into a new groove. We are no longer a “growing family” in the sense of adding a new little person every two and a half years or so, and that feels good and right. Our growth is now found in people reaching up and, eventually, away. I cannot tell you how good and right that feels, cannot reassure you enough that if you happen to be a mother who fears that the end of her childbearing years will be marked by loss and sadness, it doesn’t necessary have to be.
But back to the click.
Jude turned 5 and the only thing that changed, of course, was my perspective. But suddenly I wondered why we still had board books on the shelves and whether or not it was time to pack away the sweet wood toys my toddlers so enjoyed. The answer was yes. I don’t know why it’s taken my so long to do it, but yesterday was the day. In preparing to paint the kids’ bedrooms, babylit The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Sheep in a Jeep (affiliate links) and all their friends were set aside for a box. The shape sorter pegs, the wooden screws and bolts… all tagged for the attic. And you know, it didn’t ache. It didn’t feel sad or like letting go of something I wanted so badly to close my fingers around and hold onto for a little bit longer.
It felt right.
Last week, I took my five youngest kids to the pool. Covid has given us the gift of having a huge pool (complete with deep end) virtually to ourselves, it seems. In the past, I’ve always, always been the mom with her kids arm’s length away, counting heads, throwing rings just far enough away that my little swimmers felt a touch of freedom but could be rescued by Momma long before they caught the eye of the lifeguard. I’ve given my stronger swimmers a little more leeway, but still, the pool is a place of constant vigil, of relentless alert.
Last week, I got out of the pool.
I pulled a chair just outside the splash zone at the edge, and sat letting myself dry in the sun while Phin, John Mark, and Birdie dashed back under the rope to test their skills in the deepest water and Simon and Jude took turns seeing who could hold their breath the longest in the 3 ft. zone. I didn’t bring a book, or scroll my phone. I’m not ready to break line of sight just yet. Instead, I just watched. Two little ones were getting private lessons in the shallowest corner, and their mother was perched anxiously on a bench not far from me. I recognized the look of watchfulness in her eyes even from 15 feet away. Her babies were in perilous territory and while they each had an adult assigned to patrol them, she was not ready to feel the release of responsibility that would allow her to let down her guard.
I no longer need to be that mother. I should no longer be that mother. We are in the next stage, the stage where even my youngest needs to see encouragement in my eyes as he stretches his wings, not caution. And while I think (I hope) I’ve always had that in as my little ones have scaled trees and pushed most boundaries, there have been other areas I know I’ve held back in out of my own lack of comfort. But it’s time. For them. For me.
The next stage has come. I no longer have babies, or toddlers, or even preschoolers. I have children. The doors open wider every day. There is no more hiking backpack, no minimum height requirement, no daily nap needs holding us back from adventures. It’s a strange place to find oneself after nearly 23 years of parenting, but not one which is unwelcome. The next stage feels full of a new kind of promise, its own anticipation and richness. I’m packing away the things our family has left behind, yes. But I’m opening a whole new set of expectations, and it feels every bit as beautiful.