I was closer to 38 than 37 when I became a mother for the first and only time, and the absolute last of all my friends, sisters, and other relatives. What no one told me was that motherhood, besides all the love, also came with a darkness. For me, it wasn't until I became a mother that I felt the power of real raw worry. A feeling that has been my constant companion ever since.
The individuation process for the world's most perfect teenager, who turns 18 at the end of the summer, which clearly began a while ago, had completely escaped me. Until last week when my husband, Junior, and I visited Helsinki for a couple of days. The offspring had absolutely no interest in hanging out with us; instead, he wanted to discover Helsinki on his own.
I'm not mild giftedness, I know that children sooner or later start to break free from their parents, but I was completely unprepared for it to actually happen. The grief I have been carrying for the past week has been clear and distinct. Just as I could burst into tears at any time when Junior was a newborn, I have been crying for the past week. None of my loved ones have prepared me for this grief. Instead, everyone has said that it's so nice when the children grow up and move out and get their own lives back. I've always felt sorry for these parents who don't want to be with their children, but now I understand that this is a kind of protection against the grief.
The children growing up is truly bittersweet, of course I want Junior to grow up to be an independent, fully functioning and logically thinking adult, at the same time I miss my child who was dependent on me.
AI generated image with Grok
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