The After

We waited and it came and He came and it’s over and I’m . . .

Okay. 

Strange, how it always used to bring on sadness, the end of the Christmas season.  It used to feel so final, like it was simply a beginning and an end and 335 long days until it all came again.  I once dreaded the day after, when the enthusiasm of it all was over and there was no more anticipation for what would be.  

Strange, how adulthood changes everything, with no exception for Christmas.  Christmas, in fact, shines a blaring light on the transformation that occurs with age and maturity, as we go from waiting on Santa to becoming Santa to explaining Santa.

He knew the truth this year.  Said something about the Easter bunny last spring and when he did, he used his ten year-old fingers to make air quotes in the sky.  We were shocked, but not devastated.  Amused, but not annoyed.  Truthfully, I found some relief in discussing reality with my son.  It felt important, this exchange between parent and child, a way to cement our relationship in honesty.  It encouraged me to embrace the fact that time marches on, while allowing me to explain to Charlie that there is only one person I care about him believing in, and He doesn’t deliver baskets of eggs or fill stockings with presents.

Christmas was different this year, and not just because I'm pushing forty and there has been no denial of adulthood for quite some time.  There was less magic, less mystery for our family now that the oldest knows the truth and the youngest is more than a little suspicious.  Yet I am grateful for the changes, as the receding magic and mystery seemed to give way to something much better . . . more meaning.

I think that’s why Christmas is over and I’m okay.  Because Christmas as an adult and a mother has come to mean so much more than the weeks leading up to the twenty-fifth day of December . . . so much more than the excitement over celebrating the birth of a baby.  The birth of the baby no longer means the holiday season is over.  The birth of the baby no longer signifies the end of the most wonderful time of the year.  Christmas is over for another year and its okay because the birth of a baby is never an ending . . . it’s always a beginning.  And this baby . . . He didn’t come as the finale to a month of merriment.  He didn’t come as a conclusion.  This baby came to start and finish and live and be the most wonderful love story OF ALL TIME. 

This baby means everything. 

I will miss the world adorned in its holiday splendor, lights twinkling all over town to announce the arrival of the Light of the World.  I will miss cards arriving in the mailbox each day and searching for surprises and songs about a silent night. Still, it is okay, because although the Christmas season is over, I no longer miss what I was missing all that time.  I no longer miss Him. 

We waited and it came and He came. 

For all.  For always.   

Life's like an hourglass glued to the table. No one can find the rewind button girl. From "Breathe" by Anna Nalick

I remember the way his head fit perfectly against my chest. I remember when only my embrace could make his tears stop. I remember when he wouldn't take a step forward unless I took the step with him. I remember when my lap was his favorite place to be. I remember when he looked at me with stars in his eyes. I remember when my entrance into a room made him the happiest boy in the world.


I remember it all. I have to. I have to remember because . . . he won't. Already, he doesn't.


He's eight now and he's forgotten. I know he's forgotten because lately, when I reach for his hand and squeeze tight, he doesn't grab hold and squeeze back as though he never wants to let go. That warm, soft, innocent hand, still so small inside my own, no longer squeezes back. It just goes limp, his fingers hanging loosely across my knuckles while his eyes dart around to see if any older kids are witnessing him holding his mother's hand.


He still loves me, I know. He'll always love me, I hope. Still, a shift has occurred. A noticable one. The relationship has transformed and it will never go back to what it once was. I suppose this change didn't happen all at once. I suppose I played a bigger role in the change than I'd like to admit. Every time I said, "Go play upstairs and mommy will be there in a few minutes," I was nudging him forward. Every time I persuaded him to try something without my help, I loosened our connection. Every time I kissed his forehead and put him down to tend to laundry, or dishes, or his little sister, I was moving him towards independence. Every time I dropped him off at preschool or at a play date or at his grandparents' house, I helped him realize he wouldn't always need me.


Looking back, I'd do it again. It's my job to encourage my children's autonomy. That's always been a responsibility of parents, along with a whole lot of other messy stuff. I want my son to be a confident child who believes in his abilities. I praise him when he tries something he's never done before and cheer for him when he accomplishes a new skill. It fills me with joy to witness him master something that was once out of his reach.


Most of the time, I'm glad my son doesn't demand my constant attention the way he did as a newborn, infant, and toddler. I'm grateful the physicality of the early years of parenthood has ended and each of my son's actions no longer requires a reaction from me. I enjoy having more time to myself, more time to complete tasks that don't involve nurturing another.


The shift in my relationship with my son isn't always in the forefront of my mind. Some days it seems nothing has changed - he wants me to get a knot out of his shoelace and help him with his homework and find a prized lego. He looks at me after making a great catch on the baseball field to see my response and asks me to lie in bed with him for just a few more minutes at night. He needs me just enough to reassure me I'm still an essential part of his life. Sometimes, however, the shift in our relationship takes my breath away. Sometimes, it's so evident, so blatant that it makes me want to turn back time, to press a rewind button that can never be found. Because sometimes, when we're walking together and I reach for my son's hand, I can tell he is wishing I wouldn't. He doesn't want to hold my hand. He doesn't need it anymore. And my heart clenches inside my chest as I realize I am doing my job. I am doing exactly what the Lord has called me to do.


I am helping my little boy grow up.