I know the definition of “wistful,” obviously: “full of yearning tinged with melancholy, musingly sad.” And I know the definition of “bittersweet,” both in the food sense (don’t ever leave me alone with bittersweet chocolate) and in the emotional sense: “pleasure accompanied by regret or sorrow.”
But I’m not sure I ever felt those two feelings as solidly in my gut as I did last week, when I was a passenger in a car driven by my 17-year-old, Rowan, with my 12-year-old, Georgia, in the backseat on aux (that’s how the youth today refer to whoever is controlling the music, for those who don’t often ride shotgun with teens and tweens), and we slowed down to let a woman cross the street who had a baby strapped to her chest and a kindergartener holding her hand.
It was truly like seeing my younger self walking right across my path.
I miss those days sometimes. I miss those kids sometimes.
I love being a mom. I don’t love every second, of course – I’ve survived my fair share of everyday parenting complaints – tantrums, head lice, norovirus, colic, bad notes home from the teacher, failed math tests – as well as the scary shit I don’t even really want to discuss but will anyway just to remove the stigma because it’s even more common post-pandemic – depression, anxiety, cyber-bullying, school avoidance.
But overall, yes, I love motherhood. I cannot ever remember not wanting to be a mom someday, and after a second trimester miscarriage and then two high-risk pregnancies, I am grateful for the family I’ve built.
The way I staggered my kids, 5.5 years apart, was due to both choice and circumstances: With my pregnancies being high-risk and requiring twice-daily blood thinner shots for a full 10 months, I needed time to physically recover. In addition, I ended up getting divorced when Rowan was 3, so that obviously threw a wrench in whatever plans I thought I’d made for the future.
There are lots of good things about having kids that far apart. I never had two kids in diapers at the same time. By the time Georgia was born, Rowan could at least make herself a sandwich or pour a bowl of cereal. And by the time Georgia was 7, Rowan could babysit for short amounts of time, allowing my husband and me a brief but welcome date night every so often.
But in other ways, it’s not the ideal spacing. When Georgia was born, it felt almost like hitting the reset button – with Rowan’s burgeoning independence, I’d started to forget just how dependent newborns are, how frustrating toddlers are, how all-consuming the first three years of raising a human are.
While some of my friends had the intensity of three under 3, they also moved through it at warp speed, too exhausted, I suspect, to even register the passage of time.
Meanwhile, I feel like I spent 12 years sort of moseying through two consecutive early childhoods. I spoke at Rowan’s pre-K career day when Georgia was just 2 weeks old, sleeping against me in a Moby Wrap. I had maybe two magical Christmases where both kids fervently believed in Santa. I dragged Georgia along to Rowan’s lacrosse games and ballet recitals, and then I dragged Rowan along to Georgia’s soccer games and school plays. I absolutely was that woman crossing the street, looking a bit frazzled – maybe even more than a bit frazzled at times – but absolutely soaking up every drop of motherhood, completely absorbed in the agony and ecstasy of having young children.
But the thing about young children is that they don’t stay young. I was in denial for a while, I think, but with Georgia’s 12th birthday at the end of May and Rowan’s 18th coming up in December, I am forced to confront the reality that my motherhood is moving into a different phase.
I’ve long-since stopped being able to help with math homework, and the kids don’t need me to pour milk into sippy cups or cut up their food or comb their hair anymore. It’s been years since I read a bedtime story.
Both of the kids still need me; they just need me for different things – money and food, mostly, but occasionally advice or bedtime cuddles or my thoughts on a TikTok caption.
So yes, I’m definitely feeling wistful lately … but I wouldn’t trade places with that woman I saw. Rowan is a great driver, and Georgia has excellent taste in music, and as long as we are all going somewhere together, I’m happy to just be along for the ride.
For more Eve, check out her blog “Joie d’Eve” on Tuesday mornings at myneworleans.com
