first thoughts  Angela Lehman-Rios  

Blackie was my first pet. When I was a toddler, I loved to pick him up and stroke him gently as he lay in the palm of my hand.
Unfortunately, Blackie was a fish. His untimely appearance at the top of our tank, small black fins waving idly on the surface, was inevitable. I had to confess.
Even at age 2 and 3, I knew I shouldn’t be petting the fish, but I just couldn’t resist the feel of the silky black scales and the wonderful sense of being able to hold him entirely within my hand.

One’s relationship with pets is undoubtedly a psychoanalytic treasure trove. There’s probably a nugget of revelation in the story that exposes how I feel about my children growing older.

One day I tried to explain love to Emily. We were walking down the sidewalk, with twigs and leaves crackling underfoot on a cloudy, early autumn afternoon. She hadn’t really asked for an explanation; I must have just been seized by a mysterious maternal compulsion to talk.

Love is a state of being more oneself because of someone else, I said. Without you and Helen, I told her, I would be incomplete. It doesn’t matter how old you get, where you live or what you do, I love you because you’re part of me.
I didn’t go on to say that I haven’t figured out how this works. I didn’t feel incomplete before I had Emily, and I didn’t feel incomplete for the six or so years I was mother to Emily but not Helen—yet somehow, now, if either of them were to leave my life, I would not be the same person.

I also didn’t say that even though I’ll love them unconditionally forever, I can see why “letting go” is difficult for parents.

I know I’ll survive their eventual transition into adulthood. Even now, I’m opening my hand under the water to let them slip away from me. Helen had her first sleepover this weekend; Emily is forming her own opinions about which middle school she wants to attend next year.

As their fins unfurl, I will have to redefine what it means to be completed by my children. This feeling of not-quite-loss is a new part of my understanding of love.
Writing from The Frumpy Zone (page 9), Colleen Lee understands this feeling. I’m sure you do too. Knowing that other parents are going through the same experience helps me feel better.

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