Love, Lunaé

There is something terribly unfair about parenting. You spend their entire childhood teaching them not to need you. You teach them to walk, knowing that eventually they will walk away from you. You teach them to sleep in their own beds, feed themselves, go to school, drive a car, earn money, make decisions, and solve problems. You spend years preparing them for a world in which you will not always be standing beside them, and then somehow you are surprised when they begin living in it without you.

There were times when my children were little that I wished they would grow up faster. I don’t mean that I wished away their childhoods or didn’t want to be their mother. But I was young, too. Sometimes I wanted a few hours to go out and enjoy being young. I wanted to sit with my family and finish a conversation without getting up every fifteen minutes because somebody needed something. I wanted to eat a meal while it was still hot, take a shower without an audience, or sit down without immediately hearing someone call for Mama. There were days when I was exhausted by the constant demands of motherhood, when I longed for the independence I was so diligently teaching my children to have.

And now I would give almost anything for one of those ordinary days back.

That’s the cruelty of it. You don’t know what you’re going to miss while you’re living it. You think there will always be another bath, another bedtime, another school morning, another argument over something insignificant, another little hand reaching for yours. You don’t recognize the last time you carry a sleepy child from the car to bed, or the last time someone crawls beneath your blankets because the world feels safer beside Mama. Those moments disappear so quietly that you don’t even realize they’re gone until years later, when you would give anything to experience them once more.

I used to think the hardest part of motherhood was how much of yourself you had to give. The sleepless nights, the worry, the endless responsibilities, the constant awareness that someone else’s well-being depended on you. For so much of my adult life, there was always someone who needed something from me. I knew where I belonged because my place in their lives was unmistakable. I was the person they came looking for when they were hungry, frightened, sick, excited, disappointed, or simply wanted someone to listen. I was Mama, and for a very long time, that seemed to explain everything.

Now three of my children are adults, and my youngest is growing into a young woman who needs me differently with each passing year. I watch them make decisions, form opinions, pursue opportunities, and imagine futures that belong entirely to them. Sometimes they ask what I think. Sometimes they tell me what they’ve already decided. And sometimes I learn about their plans in the same ordinary way I might hear about anyone else’s, as something happening in a life that continues whether I’m involved in the decision or not.

I’m proud of that independence. I truly am. I wanted to raise children who could think for themselves, stand on their own feet, and build lives they were happy to call their own. I wanted them to be capable of navigating a world that isn’t always kind, to know their worth, and to understand that they never needed anyone’s permission to become who they wanted to be. What I hadn’t fully considered was how much it would hurt to watch them do it.

When children are little, being their mother is woven into nearly every part of their day. Their lives revolve around a home you maintain, routines you establish, and decisions you make on their behalf. Then, slowly, the balance shifts. Their friendships become more important. Their interests take them places you aren’t going. They begin having experiences you know nothing about until they decide to tell you. Eventually, they have homes of their own, responsibilities of their own, and people who occupy the center of their everyday lives. You find yourself learning how to stand somewhere outside that center, still loving them as fiercely as ever while accepting that their world has grown far beyond the one you built for them.

I think that’s the part I’ve struggled with most. Their happiness may lead them to another city, another state, or a future I never imagined for them. They may choose careers I wouldn’t have chosen, build families that operate differently from ours, or find a sense of belonging in places that feel impossibly far from home. I can offer advice, share my experiences, and hope they consider what I have to say, but ultimately the decisions belong to them. I have to trust the people I’ve raised enough to allow them to discover what makes their own lives meaningful.

There is a particular ache in watching your children become people who no longer need you to make the world manageable for them. You spend years answering their questions, calming their fears, and teaching them how to make good decisions. Then one day they begin solving problems before you even know those problems exist. You might still be the first person they call when something goes wrong, but you aren’t necessarily the person they need to make it right.

Sometimes I miss being needed in those little ways more than I know how to explain. I miss the certainty of knowing that when something happened, Mama would be the one they came running to. I miss the everyday familiarity of having everyone under one roof, knowing who was home, who was hungry, who was upset, and who needed a little extra attention. I even miss some of the interruptions I once found so exhausting. Those years gave our family a rhythm that I knew by heart, and adjusting to the quiet spaces they’ve left behind has been harder than I expected.

I want my children to experience everything adulthood has to offer. I want them to make mistakes and recover from them, to discover things about themselves that I could never have taught them, and to find the confidence that comes from navigating life on their own. I want them to have marriages, friendships, careers, adventures, and ordinary Tuesday afternoons that are entirely theirs. I want them to build lives so full and meaningful that they wake up excited about the possibilities ahead of them. I suppose I just wish growing into those lives didn’t sometimes require quite so much distance from mine.

Four children. Four entirely different personalities, each with their own dreams, struggles, and ways of loving and being loved. Each of them has changed my life in ways I couldn’t have anticipated. The relationships I share with them have never been identical, and I wouldn’t expect them to be. They are individuals, after all, and loving them has meant learning who each of them is. Some seasons of life bring us closer together, while others put miles or responsibilities between us. Yet each of them holds an equally irreplaceable place in my heart. I miss them in different ways because our relationships are different, and I love them all with the same fierce certainty. No matter how old they become, there will always be a part of me that remembers exactly what it felt like to have all four of them under one roof.

My oldest son was the one who first made me Mama. Every unfamiliar part of motherhood began with him. The first time I held a child who was entirely dependent on me, the first time I worried over a fever, the first time I realized that loving someone could make the world feel both more beautiful and more frightening. We grew up together in many ways. I was learning how to be a mother while he was learning how to be a person, and neither of us knew quite what we were doing. Now he’s a grown man with a wife and a life of his own. There is something extraordinary about watching the little boy who first taught you what motherhood meant become a husband, making decisions for a family he is building himself. I am proud of the man he has become, and I still find myself remembering the little boy who made me Mama in the first place.

My oldest daughter has grown into a woman with her own home, her own responsibilities, and her own ideas about what she wants from life. Even as she has built that independence, she’s talked about wanting us near one another. She wants to know I’m close, and sometimes she worries about my health and whether I’m taking care of myself. I still remember the little girl with the backpack who cried because she couldn’t follow her big brother onto the school bus. Now she’s a grown woman who sometimes worries about the mother who once worried over her. Watching that relationship evolve has shown me how much tenderness can exist in the changing roles between a mother and her children.

My youngest son showed me another side of this changing relationship when he was seventeen. He told my husband that part of the reason he still leaned on me was because he knew I needed it. He understood that his mama wasn’t quite ready to stop mothering the little boy he’d been. So sometimes he let me fuss over him, even though he was perfectly capable of managing things himself. He knew there was a part of me still holding on to those familiar ways of loving him. He was already becoming a man, and somehow he recognized that I was still learning how to be the mother of one.

And then there’s my youngest daughter, the last of my four children still living through the ordinary routines of childhood beneath my roof. She’s growing into a young woman with her own interests, friendships, opinions, and dreams. I can see the independence taking shape in her, and I recognize the signs because I’ve watched them unfold three times before. Sometimes I catch myself wanting to hold on to the familiar routines a little longer, even as I encourage her to become more capable and confident. I know there will come a day when she, too, begins building a life that no longer revolves around coming home to Mama every afternoon. I know I’ll be proud of her, and I’ll encourage her to pursue whatever life she dreams of. I also know there will be moments when I’ll wish I could turn back the clock, if only for an afternoon.

Somewhere along the way, the children I spent my life protecting began becoming people who could protect themselves, and sometimes even worry about protecting me. There is tenderness in that realization, along with the responsibility of allowing them to grow without feeling obligated to manage my happiness. I want them to know how deeply I love them and how much I miss having them close, while also feeling free to pursue opportunities wherever those opportunities may lead. Their choices should reflect the lives they want to build, and I hope they always feel secure enough in my love to make them.

We’ve joked about having a family compound, with everyone living close enough to walk to one another’s houses but far enough apart to have their own space. I can picture it so easily. My children coming and going, grandchildren playing in the yard, someone dropping by for dinner without making an occasion of it. Separate homes, separate lives, but the comforting knowledge that the people I love most are never very far away. It’s a lovely thought, and one I sometimes allow myself to linger over.

Life, of course, has a way of unfolding differently from the pictures we carry in our minds. My children have their own dreams, and those dreams may take them in four entirely different directions. I may never have the family compound I’ve imagined, or the luxury of seeing every one of them gathered around my dinner table as often as I’d like. I have to make peace with the possibility that the life I envision for our family may be very different from the lives each of them chooses. Even knowing that, I still find myself wishing for it.

I can be happy for them and sad for myself at the same time. I can celebrate a new opportunity while quietly wishing it were closer to home. I can encourage them to take chances, explore the world, and follow their hearts while knowing that every new chapter of their lives may place another little piece of distance between us. I can mean every word when I tell them how proud I am and still feel the ache of remembering when their entire world fit inside the walls of our home. I’ve come to understand that these feelings can exist together, and perhaps learning to live with both is part of what this stage of motherhood asks of me.

There isn’t necessarily anything wrong when this sadness finds me. My children may be healthy, happy, responsible, and doing exactly what I raised them to do. There may be no argument, no estrangement, no great loss that anyone else would recognize. Yet something has ended. The years when they needed me for nearly everything have passed, and no amount of wishing will bring them back. I can visit those years in photographs and memories, remembering the voices, the routines, and the little moments that once filled our days, but I cannot live in them again.

Maybe the hardest lesson in motherhood is accepting that raising children well means eventually becoming less necessary to their everyday lives. When they were little, they didn’t have to choose me. I was simply Mama. I was there when they woke up, there when they came home, and there when the day ended. Now that they’re becoming adults, our relationships have to grow into something new. I have to make room for the people they’re becoming, respect the lives they’re building, and trust that the love we’ve shared will continue to give us reasons to reach for one another.

I hope they’ll always call. I hope they’ll want to come home for holidays, share their good news, ask my opinion, and occasionally show up just because they miss me. I hope there will be family dinners, spontaneous visits, and years of memories we haven’t made yet. I know those moments will become more precious as their lives grow busier and their responsibilities increase. I’ll cherish whatever time we have together, and I’ll keep finding ways to make room for the people they’ve become.

I suppose that is what I’m learning now. How to be their mother as our relationships change. How to miss them while encouraging them to go wherever life calls them. How to remain a place of comfort and familiarity, someone they can always turn to, while accepting that their everyday lives will increasingly unfold beyond my reach. How to take pride in their independence, even when it leaves me longing for the little voices that once filled every room.

For so many years, motherhood meant holding their hands, holding them close, and holding everything together when life became difficult. Now it asks me to trust the strength of what we built during those years. The love I have for my children has accompanied them through every stage of their lives, and I believe it will continue to do so as they find their places in the world. I want to celebrate the people they’ve become and look forward to knowing the people they will be in the years ahead.

They have to be adults first now. Their own people, with their own choices, responsibilities, and dreams. They are still my children, but being my children can no longer be the thing that determines the shape of their lives. I have spent years preparing them for this freedom, and perhaps the greatest gift I can give them at this stage is to trust them enough to let them have it.

No matter where they go, I will always be their Mama. They will always be mine.

They just don’t belong to me.