The Seasons of Motherhood

Sometimes the hardest part of raising independent children is realizing you did exactly what you set out to do.

When I first became a mother, I was petrified I was going to screw it up.

So naturally, I did what I do when I want to be good at something.

I studied.

I read the books. I highlighted the chapters. I researched. I worried. I tried to learn everything I possibly could about how to be the best mom I could be.

I wanted to get it right.

Thankfully, I also had Tim.

There were nights when I was exhausted and ready for the boys to go to bed so I could finally have a little time to myself. Tim would encourage me to read one more book.

Play one more game.

Let them win sometimes.

Stay just a little longer.

At the time, I wasn't always thrilled with his advice. I was tired! I wanted to go downstairs, get my workout in and have a few minutes when nobody needed anything from me.

But he pushed me.

And all these years later, I am incredibly grateful he did.

Because everyone tells you when your children are little:

The days are long, but the years are short.

It sounds like another parenting cliché.

Until suddenly your boys are 19 and 16.

And you realize they weren't kidding.

The Goal Was Always Independence

Both of my boys still live at home, but the truth is, they're hardly ever home.

And that's a good thing.

Zachary works, attends community college and has developed a real passion for music. He's constantly going to concerts, or "shows," as he calls them, meeting bands, networking and learning everything he can about the music business.

Nicholas loves hiking, baseball, spending time with his friends, playing poker, being outside and working in his garden.

They have friends. Interests. Responsibilities. Passions.

They have lives that don't revolve around their parents.

Isn't that what we wanted?

We spend all those years teaching our children to become capable and independent. We encourage them to find their interests, make good friends, work hard and become their own people.

And then they actually do it.

Nobody tells you quite how bittersweet that feels.

I am unbelievably proud of their independence.

And sometimes I really miss being needed.

I Miss the Little Boys

I miss the cuddles.

I miss reading books together.

I miss holding their hands.

I miss their little voices.

I even miss the way they smelled when they were little, before our house became filled with teenage-boy cologne strong enough to take your breath away and sports gear that has an entirely different kind of aroma.

I miss our little traditions.

Mostly, I just miss the little versions of them.

Every once in a while, Nicholas still calls me "Mama."

And that's it. I'm done.

Whatever he wants, he can probably have it.

Both boys still hug me and tell me they love me multiple times a day. I know how lucky I am. We are close, and I am incredibly grateful for the relationships we have.

But motherhood has changed.

They don't need me to hold their hands anymore.

They need me to give them space to walk on their own.

Motherhood Doesn't End. It Changes Jobs.

I'm starting to understand motherhood as a series of seasons.

There was the season when they needed me for absolutely everything.

Then there were the school years, sports schedules, homework, practices, birthday parties and the constant logistics of raising two busy boys.

Now we're entering something entirely different.

I'm still Mom.

I just have a different job description.

Sometimes love looks like having their favorite foods in the house.

Sometimes it's Tim making his famous chocolate chip cookies.

Sometimes it's listening when they actually feel like talking and recognizing that right now might be the only window I'm getting.

Sometimes it's giving advice.

And increasingly, sometimes it's knowing when not to give advice.

It is creating a home they want to come back to while giving them enough freedom that they don't need to stay.

I think this season requires just as much intention as the earlier ones. It's simply quieter.

To the Parents in the Long Days

I've become a bit of a broken record with younger parents at work.

When someone has a baby or young children, I find myself saying some version of the same thing:

Lean in.

Take the day off.

Go to the school performance.

Coach the team if you can.

Read the extra book.

Play the ridiculous game for the hundredth time.

Take the vacation.

Sit on the floor.

Listen to the painfully long story.

Be there.

Not because every moment needs to be magical. That's impossible. Parents get tired. We get frustrated. We need careers and friendships and time to ourselves.

But don't consistently sacrifice the things you can never get back for the things that will still be waiting tomorrow.

I've said many times that your work won't be holding your hand on your deathbed.

The people you love will.

I have built a career that means a tremendous amount to me, and I believe deeply in doing excellent work. But I also believe workplaces should make it possible for people to show up for the people they love.

The meeting can be covered.

Someone else can answer the email.

Your colleague can step in.

But nobody else can be Mom or Dad for your child.

One More Book

I think back now to all those nights when Tim told me to read one more book.

At the time, I thought I had endless books ahead of me.

I didn't.

Eventually, there was a last bedtime story.

A last time I carried each boy.

A last time a little hand automatically reached for mine.

And I probably didn't know any of them were the last time when they happened.

That's motherhood.

The seasons change quietly.

One day you're highlighting parenting books because you're terrified of getting everything wrong.

Then you look up and realize those little boys have become young men with jobs and classes and baseball and concerts and gardens and friends and entire worlds of their own.

And maybe that's the answer I was searching for in all those parenting books.

The goal was never to raise children who would always need me.

The goal was to raise people who could eventually navigate the world without me.

I'm incredibly proud that they're doing exactly that.

But if I could visit that exhausted younger version of myself for just a minute, I'd give her one piece of advice.

Listen to Tim.

Read one more book.

The workout can wait.