It was a rainy afternoon. I was sitting next to the window, drinking hot chocolate as an alternative to coffee because I was pregnant. I stared outside and fancied looking at the raindrops falling to the ground. From afar, in the living room, I could hear my children laughing as the three of them played while watching television.
Some days, that was a normal scenario. In some instances, they would fight and shout and run around like wild horses. On rare occasions, they would get along just fine for several hours and would be kind to each other until nighttime. They would even watch a movie or sleep together—and that spectacle would make me joyful.
With three kids at home, a four-year gap one after the other, I concluded that anything bizarre was but normal. Their silence would scare me; thinking something bad might have happened to them. I would worry and then call their names one by one until they all answered (or answered for the youngest since she could not yet speak clearly) and sigh in relief that they were all doing okay. Their noise would annoy me especially when they were bickering, complaining, and yelling; praying that there would be peace for the next couple of hours or at least minutes. I would panic when they get hurt as the sight of blood, lump, burn or wound makes me cringe but run to them and rescue them since it is a mother’s instinct.
I cannot quite imagine them growing up, eventually becoming teenagers and then adults. Contemplating about them leaving to pursue higher education away from me, having their own families, and visiting with grandkids is too futuristic to think about but it will ultimately happen. I mean, that is what it all comes down to, right?
As a parent, I would be the happiest once my kids are through with their studies, have a stable job they love, a career that would provide them with the personal and professional growth they need, a passion that would keep them going in life, healthy relationships that would make them happy, and a family of their own just like how they completed mine. That is perhaps the only desire that my heart holds dearly and my everyday prayer to God.
While a part of me desperately clamors to keep them near, at least close to me, I know that I will not matter to them as much as I do now. I know that they will not need me shortly and they will not be as dependent as they were (or still are) just like when they were learning to walk, talk, read, write, and eat on their own. Those times when it felt like I was their world and every second I could hear them calling my name, asking for my help or my attention.
There were moments when I had to tell them to wait or not fully give them my concentration because I had work or series/show to finish, a game to win, or sleep to indulge myself in. Then I would feel guilty about not putting them first, in the same sense that remorse would engulf me every time that I had to shout at them for being disrespectful, punish them for disobeying, and ignore them when they have to be taught a lesson the hard way. At the end of the day, a mother will always be a mother hence, making it easy for me to forgive them, ask for forgiveness too, and even sometimes be the first to surrender.
In as much as I am excited to see them grow into the individuals that they are meant to become—indubitably great in every sense—there are those nostalgic moments when I wish they would remain children forever. Like what happened to the baby I used to carry in my arms, sing a lullaby to at night, and document every first rollover, coo, crawl, step, and everything else in between? What happened to the toddlers who were scared to go to school, to sleep at night without being cuddled, and who would kiss and hug me whenever, wherever? The frequent “I love you” would become just an automatic follow-up statement after every “goodnight” when going to slumber after a day’s end.
Every parent has had this dilemma and I suppose we all missed what used to be—how our children used to be. There is this inexplicably contradicting feeling of every parent wanting your precious children to be the way they are forever and knowing that even if they become adults of their own, they will remain your baby for as long as you live. That in some parallel universe perhaps, or in the corner of your most cherished memories, there is that juncture where nothing ever changes. And in your heart, you know that it will always be the same—they will always be yours no matter.
It would never be easy letting go of your children when the time comes that they would ask for their freedom, to be able to make life choices without you as a parent intervening or even being informed about them. It would be difficult watching them from afar, thinking to yourself they are not making the best decisions but wanting them to learn on their own so you have to keep your opinion to yourself. Seeing them struggle but comforting yourself with the consolation that you have taught them well and made them strong enough to surpass every challenge. You remain hopeful that they will persevere because nothing worth having ever comes without a price.
As a parent, you will always yearn for what is best for your child even if it means being a bystander at some point in their lives. What remains constant is the unconditional and incomparable love that you have for them, when their world seems to be crumbling down and everyone they value must have disappointed them, you will never turn your back on your child. A parent’s love never falters, never lessens, and never recedes. A child may outgrow their parent but a parent will never cease to treat their child—simply put—as their own, forever and always.
“I will love you forever. I will like you for always. As long as I am living, my babies you will be—Markief, Schiavie, Brie, and Sarri.”
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