The Most Unselfish Act of Love Is To Release Our Kids to the Universe

They were never ours in the first place.

Photo by Vika Glitter: https://www.pexels.com/photo/woman-man-and-girl-sitting-on-snow-1620653/

Our family is expecting a couple of new grandchildren in 2024. Two new squishy tiny humans! A fresh baby-scented boy is coming in January, and another gender-currently-unknown baby is due in June. I am so excited to love my expanding brood of grandkids.

They are my dream within a dream.

My first dream come true is my three children. I used to tell people I wanted ten kids but tamped down that number after I saw how demanding life would be.

The "girls" are 31 and 30, and the baby, my son, is 27. I used to dress my daughters, who were sixteen months apart, in twin outfits. I couldn't help myself. They were too cute not to dress up like dolls. Thirty years ago, the stores didn't carry coordinating family-matching outfits like the ones you see on Instagram, or else the whole crew would have been color-coordinated.

Looking at my old photos now, the styles are cringeworthy, but I love them just the same.

My daughters are busy creating new families for themselves, while my son is single.

The grown version of my kids has me holding a lot of different emotions. Mostly, it's nostalgia. When my three little ones lived under our roof, it was one of the happiest times of my life. Taking care of my babies and seeing them blossom created joy but also fatigue and financial strain.

The good old days were grand, but they were also stressful.

As my adult kids create their own families and pursue entrepreneurial ventures, they move just a little further away from me, physically and emotionally. I miss them since they are not under my roof. The trajectory of their lives will include a future without me.

They no longer consult with me as often as they once did, but in another way, it's a relief. Yet, I hold grief that I am now on the sidelines.

They grew up magnificently, and I feel lucky to know them. So why all the melancholy when they are doing so well?

The tendency to cling to their beauty is the heartbreak of being a parent.

They came out of my body, but their majesty is their own.

And because they came out of my body, there is comfort that I still have pieces of them in me. I don't mean that metaphorically, but I, in fact, may still have pieces of them inside my body. You see, a baby's cells pass into the maternal circulation. The name for this is fetal microchimerism. Pieces of my children float within me for decades, which may be why I always believe they are a part of me.

Can anyone get any closer to you than to materialize from within you?

My body was the hothouse to bring them forth, and slicing the umbilical cord didn't change that. Even after the petals fall away from the bud, we remember when we were once joined.

Another way to think of this is if you're an adoptive or foster parent, we are made of the same stardust. The fact that they came through us in whatever way doesn't mean we own them forever.

This poem by Kahlil Gibran encapsulates it.

On Children

And a woman who held a babe against her bosom said, “Speak to us of Children.”
     And he said:
     Your children are not your children.
     They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself.
     They come through you but not from you,
     And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

     You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
     For they have their own thoughts.
     You may house their bodies but not their souls,
     For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
     You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.
     For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.
     You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.
     The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far.
     Let your bending in the archer’s hand be for gladness;
     For even as He loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that is stable.

From The Prophet (Knopf, 1923). This poem is in the public domain.

I heard this poem sung first, and it’s one of my favorite songs.

My pleasure will always reside in my children’s happiness and a prosperous, joy-filled life for each of them. My gift to them is to feel empowered to live their own lives as they see fit and not have to look back to see if I agree. My newest talent is biting my tongue until it bleeds.

And because a parent-child relationship is hierarchical, they don’t owe me.

Going out and living their best lives is what they're supposed to do, without worrying about what I’m doing. Filling the void has come easy for me. My plate is full, but I still miss them all the time.

Some pain you have to learn to live beside. The sorrow has been more than offset by the joy that children and their children bring.

For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.