Dear Mothers #11

For Dragging Her Heels in the Sand

Dear Mothers, 

This week, we are going on our third middle school tour to learn about the schools nearby as we determine what next school year will look like for our beloved, eldest daughter. 

Wasn't I just bringing her home from the hospital? No … that was 11.5 years ago. 

Didn't we just do preschool tours? No … and remember how not fun those were?!

Am I even old enough to have a middle school?! Well … yes, yes you are. 

I remember the moments in those early days of her childhood, wishing (read: willing) us into the next moment, next season, next age. I remember begging for God to give me peace and joy and energy and patience; please Lord, give me so much more patience. I remember days filled with toys sprawled on the floor, and footed pajamas, and curls needing to be pinned up out of her face so I could see her big beautiful brown eyes. I remember the longing for simple, quiet, and some ease in the midst of our loud, messy, busy days. 

They told me the time would go fast.

They said to enjoy it while it lasts.

They said that this season of motherhood was fleeting. 

They were right.

Now we are here, in the middle of puberty and hard questions about body image and friends and crushes on boys. Now we are here, with cleaner homes, yes—and even quieter days—yes, but with a deep ache in my heart at how quickly the time is actually going. I love that I get to still help her pin curls out of her face and snuggle up with her as we both dive our noses deep into our books. I love that she comes to me with questions and seeks my advice. But mothers, I am not ready for middle school. I am not ready for this next season of motherhood. I find myself so stubbornly putting my foot down in the sand as time drags me through, not at all, even in the slightest, ready to move on to this next adventure with my beloved, eldest daughter.

How do I do this? I am scared and sad, and the heartache feels so real. How do I honor these past few seasons of motherhood, and also step into this new, uncharted season with peace and joy and energy and patience and delight?

-Dragging Her Heels in the Sand

Dear Dragging Her Heels in the Sand, 

This morning I stepped out of the shower to find my four-year-old daughter standing in the doorway of the bathroom with tears streaming down her face. 

“Babe! What’s the matter?” I asked, frantically wrapping a towel around my body before bending down to console her. 

“The red flowers are disappeared!” she told me, choking back sobs. 

Red flowers? I racked my brain for a split second, trying to make sense of this riddle. The answer clicked almost immediately: the camellias in the front yard are gone. Done. Shriveled up.

“Oh honey,” I said, squatting down on the floor to get close to her. Pieces of hair hung in her face, sticking to the tears on her cheeks. I wiped a few strands back and pulled her in for a hug. 

“I’m sorry the red flowers are gone. They only bloom for a season. But guess what? They’ll be back next year, just in time for your birthday!” I smiled reassuringly.

Her face crumpled again as she wailed, “But dat will take FOREVER!” 

I tried not to laugh at her grief. Her sadness is valid, after all, this total and complete heartbreak over the changing seasons. I know her sadness is valid because while I am not sobbing my eyes out over the camellia tree in our front yard, I have been on the brink of sobbing my eyes out over my son graduating elementary school.