"All change involves loss, and all losses must be mourned."
As life evolves, so do our emotions and experiences.
Maybe this is what those moms of older kids meant when they told me to cherish the young years, because they knew that with every milestone of growth, you lose something. This is the magic of my grief: that it transforms my losses into love.
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Autumn is encroaching on these stifling summer afternoons. Our dog, Daisy, begs me for her daily walk, and I know it’s good for both of us—the sunshine and fresh air. I guess the old adage from my childhood is true, because I always feel revitalized after being outside in the expanse and glories of nature.
But today I don’t want to go. I can’t say why, except I’ve been stuck in my head for several weeks. I can’t seem to come back to the present moment, to noticing what’s in front of me or appreciating the gifts of the here-and-now. Daisy nudges me with her wet hound nose, and I sigh, hoist myself from my desk, and clip her harness over her shoulders.
“Okay, girl, let’s go.” She pulls with enthusiasm, just like she does every day, and I chuckle. Dogs are like kids, I think. They act like everything is new all the time.
It occurs to me that this is the antidote to my mental overload: viewing everything around me as if it were new, as if I’d never seen or heard or felt it before.
I keep this in mind as we round the corner that leads to our neighborhood park.
The air is still, though stagnant with the edge of humidity. There are no cars whirring past, no kids riding bicycles, no pet owners crossing our paths. As we enter the park, I realize it’s ours today, at least for this fracture of time. I relish the silence and raise my eyes to the heights of a cluster of towering pines. In reply, they offer a faint whistle as a breeze rushes through their needles. I inhale the sharp, clean scent.
For a speck of this instant, my mind and body relax. I feel my shoulders slacken, my jaw release its clench, my neck loosen. As they do, a faint element of sadness washes over my heart. It’s because we’ve passed the playground, and I catch sight of the baby swings—empty, rocking to and fro in the wind.
What I see are flashes of my two boys, Ben pushing them in these very swings, their chubby toddler legs dangling mid-air. I see the tufts of hair sprouting on the top of their heads, their arms to each side, the sheer delight scrawled on the wide grins they display. There is wonder in that moment for them.
But as the image fades from memory, my eyes moisten with something I’ve never felt before. Is it grief? Some sort of lament? Many years ago, veteran moms often told me that “the days are long, but the years fly by.” They told me to enjoy the young years, because they flicker and fade without warning.
I couldn’t fathom a time in my life when I would miss the sleepless nights, the rotation of diaper changes and feedings, the grabbing of my hair or jewelry, the teething screams, the tummy ache wails. Because that was my reality, through and through. Giving birth to three children in four years forced me into a sort of crude assembly line, in which I mindlessly wiped noses and bottoms and washed mounds of clothes and flopped, depleted after a grueling (and noisy) day.
What I didn’t see back then, because I wasn’t able to, were the snapshots of joy in ordinary, unnoticeable fragments of a day—like when Ben and I would trek to the park, all five kids in tow, and Joey and Auggie insisted that Daddy push them on the swing.
What I wanted at the time was what I have now—more space, more silence, more sleep, more time. This is the first year they are all in school, and right now I admit that I miss them. Without my children, I’m certain I would have long ago forgotten how to stop in the middle of paying bills and spontaneously participate in an impromptu family karaoke night. I wouldn’t have savored simple things, like summer’s first peach, or scribbles on a piece of scrap paper that is proudly handed to me, along with an “I love you, Mommy.”
Would I be who I am without them? I doubt it. There are times when each of my children has spoken a phrase or sentence so profound that my breath catches in my throat.
Joey: “I’m thankful Sarah looks different, and I want the whole world to love her.”
Auggie: “You can still love someone when you’re mad.”
Veronica: “I hope no one will have an empty heart.”
Sarah: “I’m glad I look like me and no one else.”
Felicity: “What if the whole world came together through their art?”
And as I wind around the circular concrete footpath, making my way toward the entrance of the park, a quote I heard years ago when I was in the thick of my work with the bereaved pops in my head: “All change involves loss, and all losses must be mourned.”1
Maybe this is what those moms of older kids meant when they told me to cherish the young years, because they knew that with every milestone of growth, you lose something.
You lose the chubby hands and the baby coos. You lose the sticky hugs and greasy hand prints on the walls. You lose the innocence as your kids do, too, as you watch it slip into oblivion once they’ve been struck by the sniper of betrayal.
The losses that are snatched from life as childhood morphs into adolescence, which then becomes adulthood, grab me today with gripping pain. As a mother, I am a container for these losses, but my memory—at least for now—retains the events in sight and sound of the days long past. I’ve always wanted my children to grow up and become their own people, and they are.
Though they no longer hold my hand to cross the street, and one day soon they will no longer live under my roof, they still live through what I share and what I love and how I came back to a childlike place within myself of noticing things again and entering the world as if I’d never seen it before.
This is the magic of my grief: that it transforms my losses into love.
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Call for Submissions
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The Book Club for Busy Readers
I’m pleased to announce that I’ll be hosting a monthly virtual book club for all of my Substack subscribers, starting in January. Generally, these will be held on the second Sunday of every month (unless otherwise noted) from 2-3:30 PM Eastern via Zoom. In two cases, I have authors who will make a guest appearance to discuss their book with us. If you are interested in joining, I will need you to send an email (jeannie [dot] ewing 07 [at] gmail [dot] com—without spaces), so that I can extend the Zoom invitation month to month.
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If you enjoyed this essay, please consider reading and sharing other similar reflections I’ve published previously:
Attributed to Harry Levinson, the “psychologist of the workplace.” You can find more here: https://www.mckinsey.com/~/media/mckinsey/email/leadingoff/2021/01/11/2021-01-11a.htm
What a precious piece of writing! Parents and non-parents—anyone who is growing and changing—will enjoy this ultimately uplifting reflection on the losses a mother endures. I really admire Jeannie's vulnerability and authenticity. 🙏💚
I am a grandmother and now some of my grandchildren are adults. I so remember when they were young, and we did things together. My middle granddaughter lived with me during her senior year, and it really was a nice time. She was visiting me this week.....and we got so many things done. Although I totally love how they are as teens and adults, In fact the teen years have been great in many ways still miss some of the times when they were younger. And it does feel a bit like a loss. The days are long, but the years are short and pass even quicker as we get older. I remember reading you get 18 summers with them generally.....before they are off on their own life pursuits....yes, enjoy them while you can.