A Mother's Silly Wish

It is inevitable as a mother that you find yourself wishing that children will stay young forever. I feel this longing every time I see a new mother with a newborn.  The sweet smell and coo of a nursing baby, the angelic face of a sleeping baby, and the pure joy of a giggling baby are experiences that steal a mother’s heart.  We know in those seconds how rare and fleeting the precious visions are. No Kodak camera can truly capture those moments.

It is over in the blink of an eye.  The sweet innocence is replaced by developmental awkwardness and youthful exploration.  My son had a peculiar and contracted way of pronouncing “fire truck” (of which he was quickly disabused by my mother).  My daughter was fond of announcing her lady parts to strangers in public places.  My son would try to jump from a moving car if we drove through the neighborhood where his pediatrician worked (and drained his frequent earaches); he would go ballistic if we drove by a Toys-R-Us without stopping to play.  My daughter would hyperventilate, creating the strangest sound of exhilaration, at the sight of the neon extravaganza that announced the now defunct “Incredible Universe.”

Sadly, those years are just as short lived.  Before I knew it, life was all pimples and mood swings.  I went from being at the center of my children’s universe to the bane of their existence.   The sweet sounds of “Yes, Mommy” and “I love you Mommy” were replaced with “Yeah, right” and “Duh.”  I heard second-hand reports of how my son excelled at trash talk on the ice and in the locker room.  My beautiful daughter became hyper-self-critical, no longer excepting my assessment of her worth as gospel.  I told myself that this was all part of a plan—one that soon made it possible for me to let go.   There was no separation anxiety; I was ready to push them from the nest.  All I really wanted was another day of cuddles with my kids.  I wanted to hold them until their stomachache went away, or to stroke their blonde hair until they surrendered to slumber.   Please, I begged to no one in particular, don’t let them grow up this fast.  

My kids embraced their independence well, choosing colleges far from home.  I am proud of how they adapted to their respective situations.  It wasn’t always easy, but they demonstrated true survival instincts as they weathered the highs and the lows.   The adults who came home for holiday visits seemed to stand a little taller, feel a little deeper, and hug a little longer.  They aren’t my babies, but I like these self-assured members of my family who betray their genetic linkage to my once-babies in so many subtle ways. 

Then, every once in a while, an angel taps me on the shoulder.  Such is the case when my 23-year old son was carded while ordering a beer, blushing to have his manhood challenged in full view of his parents.  Or when a particularly ornery salesman at Brookstone tried to prevent him from sitting in a massaging lounge chair, a privilege reserved for customers over the age of 18.  Or when I took my almost 20-year-old daughter for mother-daughter pedicures and the woman doing her toenails thought it was a gift for her Sweet-16.   My kids are annoyed that they are not more credible as adults--frozen, so they seem, inside their baby faces.  But I know in my heart that it is just a mother's silly wish coming true.