Mommy Milestones

Two weeks ago, just days before my son’s 10th birthday, we were sitting at dinner and I silently watched as he cut his meat and served himself some more pasta. As ridiculous as it sounds, I started to cry – right there, in the middle of dinner, on a random Tuesday night. Watching him help himself suddenly triggered memories of spoon-feeding him squash and carrots at that very table, which seemed only days ago.

Yet, years had passed. Somewhere, in the black hole of time, were the days and hours, minutes and seconds of diaper changing, toddler feeding, and everything else in between.

And suddenly I missed it. I longed for every tantrum-throwing second, every sleepless night in that unexpected emotional moment of watching my son at the dinner table.

I realized then that his upcoming 10th birthday was a milestone for me, too, and I reluctantly accepted that it was time for me to grow up, as well.

But before I did, I knew I needed to mourn the loss of my son’s baby and toddler years. With my daughter growing up behind him, I didn’t focus too much on giving up high chairs and toddler potty seats. It seemed a very organic progression, and saying goodbye to the slew of baby gear that once cluttered my home wasn’t nearly as sad as it was cathartic.

I was definitely facing those loss-filled emotions now, though. It was not only time to metaphorically let go of the baby things, but more importantly, it was time to let go of my perception of my son as a small child. At ten, he was almost as tall as me and officially a pre-teen, headed straight into those hellish teenage years my friends with older kids have warned me about. Like most ten-year-olds, he is fiercely independent and quite opinionated.

And he doesn’t need me anymore . . . at least not like he did when he was younger. That thought brought a sharp stab of pain to my gut.

I didn’t realize how much I wanted to be needed, how much that caretaking role had come to define me over the past ten years.

Whether or not I was ready to let go, the time was here, and I knew it. And just like the many smaller milestones that came before, there was no parenting handbook to tell me how to do it, no guidebook to show me how I should parent a ten-year-old or how I should reinvent myself – again.

I’m at least aware now that I have a new role. Yes, I am still a disciplinarian and enforcer of homework. But I listen more now than talk, and I’m more careful about what I say about him in public, as it seems everything embarrasses ten-year-old boys. As I have for the past ten years, I’m learning as I go, praying each day not to screw it up.

The milestones are always bittersweet for us moms (how many of us cried the first day of Kindergarten?), and I know there are many more to come – ones that may very well leave me in more tears if they involve a physical separation for college or a new job. Each milestone seems to become more momentous, maybe to gradually prepare us for the more significant ones that follow. And we have to continue to let go, to grow as parents, and to reinvent our roles as necessary.

But first we need to acknowledge that these are milestones for us, too. And that it’s going to be ok.

On the first day of school this year, the year my son will be graduating elementary school, I unconsciously slid back to my toddler-mommy role and tried to button his polo shirt. He looked at me in disbelief, and quickly reminded me that he knows how to close a button. I stepped away as he buttoned up his shirt. My son saw my face, probably a mixture of sadness and forced apathy, and unbuttoned his collar. He grabbed my hand, and said, “OK mom, one more time, but that’s it.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat and buttoned up my ten-year-old son. But in front of me I saw my sweet three-year-old boy, his blond curls bouncing, squirming away from me to run off and play. And for the first time in weeks, it made me smile through my tears. Maybe I’m ready to grow up, after all.

Maybe.

* This article originally appeared on The Mommy Vortex.