It's been a minute since I've written anything. Honestly, life has just been too crazy and too scary to even try to sit down and articulate my feelings. But tonight as I sit, tears streaming down my face, I had to put the proverbial pen to paper.
Tomorrow morning I drop my first baby off at kindergarten. I'm not alone. Millions of mothers have done it before me. Millions of mothers will continue to do it. The thought I wish to put out into the universe is the pure and unadulterated sorrow I feel knowing that, from this point forward, she will only spend more and more of her time away from home. With every passing year she will gain more independence, more responsibility, and less desire and ability to be with me. That's the goal, right? Aren't we all supposed to be raising our kids to be smart, independent contributors to society? I know that's what my mind wants. But deep down, if I am being truly honest, I am so heartbroken.
I have always wanted to be a mother. Always. I can never recall a moment in time where I questioned whether or not I wanted a big family. And a few years ago, after running into a scheduling conflict at my job, I made the choice to give up my career in social services and stay home to raise my babies. While I sometimes envy my working friends, wearing their grown up clothes and taking long lunches with other adults, I never ever question whether or not I'm doing exactly what I'm suppose to be doing.
I know my daughter is strong. She's sharp as a tack, friendly, kind, helpful...and there are days I actually wonder if she isn't smarter than me. I know she's going to be fine. Better than fine. I just really need to be honest about how heavy the last few months have been. I sit here wondering if the times I ran out of activities and crafts have left her feeling disappointed. Will she remember all the times I tried to slow down and snuggle with her? Or will she remember the times I lost my Jesus and yelled about something stupid? Could she hear me crying on the hard days when I would lock myself in the laundry room for a few minutes just to be alone? And the most terrifying question: Did I waste the last few months I had at home with her?
This is not another mom-blogger's obligatory cry for praise or even an attempt at being inspirational. I am not going to close this post with "At the end of the day...our babies will remember how hard we worked at giving them a great life so it won't matter if we drink wine and cuss sometimes..."
I am honestly sad. And super scared. No joke. This sucks.