Doomed Love

“I’ll tell you something about motherhood. It’s the most impossible love. You tell me when it ends. You tell me when it stops.”
- Diane Keaton in Because I Said So

One of my neighbors had a baby last week and as I gaze across the street at her house, I remember back to those days when we brought our own children home. I think about that all-encompassing, soul-sucking, time-saturating state of being when every minute revolves around that child. And then I fast-forward to now, when my kids are teens and rarely have a physical need for me, let alone an emotional want of my companionship let alone my advice. I have to say, it’s a little rough on the psyche.

And no, this won’t be a long-winded rant about “where has the time gone?” and “when did they grow up?” In fact, my thoughts about motherhood are less about mourning the loss of their youth than it is about avoiding the inevitable mortality of my role as a mother. The question that looms over our house is: I know that I’ll always be a mother, but if nobody needs mothering, then really, what am I?

Really, it seems a little ridiculous that I would even have this discussion with myself. It’s one of life’s inevitabilities along with death and taxes: Our kids will grow up and no longer need us. And worse, they will be less interested in us than we are in them. Jeez, that hurts. I almost understand why aging senior citizens sometimes unexpectedly act up and make a big deal out of small aches and pains. They’re looking for a little attention. And, of course, it’s also why women obsess over their grandchildren – so that they can relive their maternal years.

Still, there is virtually no other relationship, except perhaps employer-employee, where nice things will be said, but both parties know that it will be time to move on. Sure, we’ll get the employee newsletter and the obligatory phone call once a week or two, but it has changed. The relationship has fundamentally changed, never to be the same again.

Yet, I’d do it all over again in a heartbeat – every anguished moment of worry, every raging breath of anger, every tear shed over their broken hearts – it’s worth every single second.

My “baby” turns 15 this week – my own personal Valentine on the day before. It’s different to watch a daughter growing up. You fight with yourself over warning her about life’s trials and tribulations or stepping back and letting her experience them in her own way and her own time.

Excuse me now. I have to go and call my mom.