The Slow Drip…

I have been calling this feeling of loss a slow drip because for 8 months, starting on the day of our daughter’s senior year of High school and leading up to dropping her off at college, I have been crying gently (sometimes not so gently) everywhere. I have cried in the bathroom as I put on makeup, I have cried in her bathroom as I watched her put on makeup. I have cried on the toilet, in the shower, in the car, on a call when someone asked how I was doing, cried with the dog on a walk, cried with the dog on the couch, cried behind sunglasses picking out sheets at Bloomingdales, cried in the parking lot of Bloomingdales with said new sheets, back with the dog in bed, on a zoom before everyone hops on and last but not least, with my husband, who initially found it sweet and was sympathetic but finally felt it was comical, pathetic and perhaps I needed professional help. He might be right. But it is also real and a loss that I can’t quite describe. Maybe like a limb I have suddenly lost. A thumb perhaps. A necessary finger that if you lost it would be hard to do the simplest tasks. Like making the bed with those sheets from Bloomingdales but guests are coming soon and so you must. Maybe even a kind of death; like one of childhood and parenting. And it is profound, so I am preparing. Been preparing for this moment of loss for months and always thinking there is never enough time. 

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It started six months after my daughter was born. My husband and I decided it was time for me to go back to work. I had to. Financially there was no way around it and in truth, I love my work and knew I would regret not going back. I also know not every mother feels maternal instincts and that for many, the idea of returning to work is true relief from the struggle of postpartum, anxiety and stress. But for me, those six months at home were absolute bliss. Every moment of my every day was spent loving and being consumed so completely with this little perfect human. And although of course she wasn’t perfect, and I’m probably not remembering all the days that were imperfect, at that time, it kinda felt that way. She filled my heart with so much love it was addictive. My husband and I had also decided in the early days of our relationship that we would have only one child. Maybe because of that I wanted to give her all I was capable of giving. I wanted her to know with every ounce of my being, how deeply loved she was and that she wasn’t alone in the world. It probably sounds too intense. Maybe it was. Maybe the many hours of therapy I have had could tell you the story of me, but who cares. Because nevertheless, each night before I put her to bed, I would stare into those big brown eyes, hold her tight and say, “Do you know how much mommy loves you?” And she would look up at me, all sweetness, and I knewthat she could feel it. I have said that to her or some version of “I love you” to her for nineteen years which is 6,935 days as of this article and my personal drop of dopamine. But who’s counting.

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And so, I went cold turkey. At six months old, that band aid came ripping off and I did go back to work. The day before I was taking her on one of my daily strolls around the neighborhood. She was sleeping in the carriage, and I was sobbing with my friend on the phone. Sobbing. Like my first love and I had just broken up and it was all my fault!! Like someone was pulling my heart out, stomping on it, shoving it back in, laughing and saying too bad. My brain could rationalize why I had to go back to work, but as I tried to breathe through the pain, my heart couldn’t. It felt unfair and I could not reconcile it. Once back at it, I became the most efficient employee I could possibly be. Making sure I finished all my work by end of day and racing home to put her to bed before our caregiver did. Thankfully, most days I made it home in my 15-minute commute but sometimes I was too late, and she would already be asleep until morning. When that happened, I would be devastated. Did she say Mama? Dada? Was she sucking her thumb and that was the last time she would do it?? It was like missing a call from a long-lost friend you can’t connect with. I wanted time I couldn’t get back. As the years went by, we moved, and my 15-minute commute turned into 45. It was a lovely, playground, good school, child friendly neighborhood, but the sacrifice was that traffic and work were eating into my life and getting to her faster was difficult. I felt guilt and I was scared that our daughter would not adjust or perhaps adjust so easily she would not know I was her actual mother. I would have failed on my promise to love her. To make sure she wasn’t alone in the world. To have time with her. 

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But my daughter did adjust and along with me making sure she knew I was her only mother, we found our rhythm. As she grew up, when I was with her, I was with her. My mother-in-law told me she thought I gave more dedicated time to my daughter than she did running around with her three children as a stay-at-home mom. I suppose there was comfort in that. I also was right in that my husband and I working full time did affect her. In these past 8 months my daughter and I have talked a lot. A lot about the past, present, and future. Also, strangely, amazingly, in the insane silver lining of the pandemic, for the first time since I went back to work when she was 6 months, my daughter had a stay at home, albeit, working mom.

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We talked about what it was like for her to grow up with two parents who worked full time. Circumstances required it, but beyond that, and once I adjusted, my job was fulfilling, nurturing even, and an important example for my little woman to see. Sometimes when she was younger, she would say “I’m never going to work when I’m a mother.” It felt like a small punch in the gut if they can be small. A wave of guilt to remember to do better as a parent. All I could say was that this was how our family worked and hopefully she would have that choice when she was older. One thing she did assure me of, is that she always felt very loved. But she also expressed deep feelings of loneliness and hurt. She gave me examples that essentially drove a stake through my heart but that I needed to hear. She told me of when I would call and say I’d be coming home at 6 or 7 and then inevitably, not intentionally, arrive at 8. That she would retreat to her room, sad and wanting. She told of being one of the only kids not being picked up from school by a parent. She told of the nannies that were unkind, only discovering it because she couldn’t keep silent anymore. On top of everything else, she was an only child and without a sibling by her side, had no one else to rant to and be comforted by. I don’t mean this to sound as if every day was an emotional thunderstorm for her. It wasn’t. But these moments of isolation were dense and thick with sorrow told by a child having to emotionally adjust. I told her I was sorry. That as parents we did the best we could. She understood but the pain can’t just be wiped away and she learned, like many children do, how to steady themselves and move forward. 

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Ironically, and now that life has slowed a bit, I have more time. But now she is the one leaving me and I’m desperate once again to have as many moments with her as possible. But she has a life filled with friends and a boyfriend and doesn’t feel the need to be glued to my side like she did. It’s me who wants to be glued. Who wants to stay up late no matter the hour and talk for as long as she’ll have me, trying so hard to absorb like a sponge whatever she is willing to give. Now I look to her on how she adjusted for strength but it’s the same feeling for me all over again. The day before going back to work, the day we dropped her at college, it’s all blended into one. I want time back. Now I’m having to grow up just like she is and embark into new territory. As the weeks have passed and she is settling in and my husband and I are settling into life as empty nesters, we are adjusting. And with every happy picture she sends, every facetime I see her smiling, I feel utter joy for her and a bittersweet knowing that this is the end and beginning of a chapter. And I will have to forgive myself at some later date for what I didn’t or couldn’t do because no one is a perfect parent. It’s just not feasible. And when she looks down at her wrist with our matching tattoos, my way of continuing to say I love her everyday even if we don’t speak, I hope she knows she is never alone and how very loved she is. Although time waits for no one, my every moment with her has been sacred and my slow drip of loss will hopefully become a steady stream of loving memories.