Orbit

My kids are getting older. Well, we're all getting older, but time moves differently with children. I can still remember how completely our lives revolved around them when they were young. Everything was ordered by when they would be hungry, need a nap, or need space to let their imaginations run wild. Our days were shaped by the things we knew and our ability to cope with the things we didn't.

Now, I count myself lucky if I see all three of them in the same week. One has already set off to build a life of his own and find his place in the world. His life is full of many of the same questions I wrestled with at his age. We've taken different paths, but the search for who we are and how we want to live remains the same.

The other two are practicing their independence, living in that space between needing us and not wanting to need us. Every day they discover a new skill, a new interest, or a new piece of themselves, and pull away a little more. My rational self knows that's exactly what growing up is supposed to look like.

Still, I'm afraid.

I'm afraid of losing them and the joy they bring to even the most ordinary moments. I'm afraid of how quiet the house will become. I'm afraid of being unable to protect them in this complicated world. And I'm afraid of figuring out who I will be when I'm no longer needed in the role of mom every day.

Since becoming a mother, I've taken a Mother's Day picture with my kids every year. It's one of the few times I want to be in front of the camera. Those photos have become treasures, and looking back at them feels like opening a time capsule. This year, only two of the kids were in the picture—just one more reminder that time keeps moving forward.

But as I looked at that photo, I realized something. While our lives are no longer ordered by nap schedules, snack times, and bedtime routines, I'm still in orbit of these people. The distance between us may change. Their paths may take them farther from home. But they remain the center of some of my deepest joys, worries, hopes, and prayers.

And perhaps that's what motherhood becomes: not holding them close, but learning how to love them as they find their own orbit.

Other Side

The other side of the fence is a tempting place. Things over there are just out of reach. Close enough to see how wonderful it is, and easy to get caught in the 'if only' trap.

If only I were on the other side, things would be better; everything would work out. There couldn't be stress over there on the other side, just look at it, it's so green. There is opportunity on the other side. It's plentiful. I'd never fail over there. And the breeze! Even the breeze on that side looks more inviting, just look how the grass sways.

I find myself doing that more often than I care to admit. "I just need to get through this week." Racing through the things, the obligations. The weekend is on the other side of the fence and filled with a different kind of opportunity. A free space where there is time to develop a strategy, make as many or as few plans as necessary, and enjoy slow mornings that lead to productive (or as productive as we care to be) afternoons. It's all a blank canvas. 

This weekend, we finished a fence we've been working on for a few weeks. Tackling small pieces of a big project as time and weather would allow. No matter how you do it, fencing is decidedly un-fun. It's a lot of work. There's sweating and swearing. Lifting and pulling. Coaxing and cajoling. All to create a new other side. Ironic?

But when it was done and we turned the cows out, it was worth it. They waded through the grass, barely visible in the middle of their new pasture of plenty. 

I could have sat there all day to watch them jump and dance. Enjoying their precious time on the other side of the fence. But I didn't, I was determined to continue my productivity.

When I went to check on them in the afternoon, I found that they had wandered back to where their day began. Standing in the cool shade of the familiar. Enjoying the breeze on the old side of the fence.

There is something comforting about the familiar. The routine predictability of it all. Maybe that's the challenge, to see the other side for what it is, all while knowing that this familiar side has its perks too. There's no need to race through the things, the obligations. They exist on the other side too, maybe just hidden in that tall swaying grass.