The house is unusually clean and a tad too quiet this week. Backpacks are hanging, ready to go, water bottles filled and a new pair of sneakers by the door. My children took turns this week standing in the driveway, smiling nervously in their first-day-of-school outfits, unaware of the lump in my throat as I snapped the annual “first day photo.”
It’s funny; everyone tells you how fast it goes, but you don’t really believe them until you’re living it. The days of little hands gripping mine while they learned to walk, have turned into waves and sign languages love you’s as they hop out of the car in the drop-off line and walk into school. Their steps are no longer wobbly, their independence growing and yet in my heart, they’re still the babies who once needed me for everything.
There’s pride, of course. I want them to learn, to grow, to become who God intended them to be. But, there’s also a bittersweet ache in watching them inch further from my side, year after year. You think you’ll remember every detail. Their tiny backpacks, their wobbly handwriting, their squeaky voices telling you about their day. But the truth is, time steals pieces of those memories.
This week wasn’t just about a new school year. It was about another chapter turning in the story of their lives… and mine. I realized that motherhood is a constant lesson in letting go, a little at a time and trusting that the love you’ve poured into them will carry them through the hallways of life, not just the hallways of school.
So here I sit, coffee growing cold, scrolling through past first-day pictures and marveling at how much has changed in such a short amount of time. I’ll cheer them on, help with homework, listen to the day’s stories and count down to next summer. But for today, I’ll let myself feel the tug on my heart, because it means I’m doing my job. Raising them to grow beyond me.
Time flies and while my children may be growing up, I’m learning that a mother’s love never does.
