The Grief and Joy of Growing Up
I’ve always been a writer, though I’d never claim to be a particularly good one. Over the years I’ve found old poetry, stories, and blogs. Rereading them used to embarrass me. However, I think I’ve learned to appreciate that I often wrote passionately, about things that mattered to me in the moment. If it’s ugly and raw, it is likely a good representation of my emotions at the time.
That said, I sometimes struggle to be the “voice” of RCD. I often write as a way to decompress, or process, personally. I no longer have a personal blog or share as much on my personal Facebook. For RCD, I try to write helpful posts and about things that matter to our audience. Because what wants to come from my fingers on the keyboard are words that are bubbling up from my heart, I get stuck trying to balance emotions/helpful blogs. What often happens when I’m living in a time of big emotions in my personal life- I end up not writing at all.
A few weeks removed from dropping our second baby (18 is still a baby, right?) off at college, I remembered a piece on motherhood and grieving. I once read, (or heard, I honestly can’t remember), about how watching your children grow up is a thousand little griefs. A mix of pride, celebration, and grieving your child moving forward- towards independence and life without you.
I haven’t found the exact piece I read, (though I did find several other good ones) but recalling it alongside my experience made me think of a paper cut. I wrote some thoughts down recently as a way to journal. It isn’t a coherent poem, and likely not in any structure of a real poem, but it is mine nonetheless. (It may not seem, to me, like a piece that belongs on a doula agency blog. But, it is about parenting.)
A thousand tiny paper cuts
A slice, ever so small, but yet still wells with a tiny drop of blood.
The sting.
Through the years, one heals, a new one takes its place.
Tiny paper cuts.
They heal.
Each new thing or first “time” is celebrated, the “last” time is lost into the monotony, rarely recognized or memorialized.
Tiny paper cut.
The first smile, the first coo, only meant for you.
It heals.
The last time they crawled, forgotten little by little as the steps increased before they fell again.
Tiny paper cut.
Their first step is documented for the world to see.
It heals.
The last time they said “booberry”, lost somewhere along the way to new skills and vocabulary.
Tiny paper cut.
Their first sentence, the first “I love you”.
It heals.
Their first day of kindergarten, a big kid now, able to remember every detail of their face, the tears pooling in their eyes as they beg you silently not to leave.
Tiny Paper cut.
Making friends, learning to work with others, hearing them read.
It heals
Missing a jump, failing a test, feeling left out.
Tiny paper cut.
A medal, scores improved, learning to love themselves.
It heals.
A call home from school, voice shaking, the kids’ relentless.
Tiny paper cut.
Knowing I’m a safe space.
It heals.
Miles now separating.
Tiny paper cut.
Excitement in their voice as they describe their new home.
It heals.
Something I saw that was amusing, leaned over to whisper an inside joke, but the passenger seat sat empty.
Tiny paper cut
Knowing they’d find it funny at all.
It heals.
Saying goodnight with emojis and text instead of standing on my tiptoes reaching my hands around their neck, squeezing them.
Tiny paper cut.
Hearing their voice say “love you, mom”
It heals.
A thousand tiny paper cuts. A thousand times it healed. A mark deeply marred into the skin of my soul. But instead of shame over the flaw, pride in the silvery scar tissue. Delight in the life birthed and lived. Taking a thousand paper cuts, healing again and again, if it means this is where they thrive. The Grief and Joy of Growing Up.
