Today's guest writer, Angie Mobley previously described a major loss in her life on this page. It was a spellbinding story, Until Then. I enjoy her writing, because it is so focused on love for the people in her life. I admire her humor, her joy in her family, her occasional wistfulness but acceptance of change.
Angie lends a new angle to motherhood. She's creative, always interested in the family, and always making the best of what life experiences hand to her. So far, she's managed to overcome and thrive on some challenges. But will she be able to carry on this pattern of always looking on the bright side of things?
Ah, the suspense of it all!
Angie tells us ...
According to all legal documents, my age is undeniably 47 years. Funny, I don’t often “feel” 47 years old, although there are occasions when my joints like to send little reminders just in case I do forget. Mentioning forgetting, that’s yet another one of those things that seems to be happening with more frequency. I’m sure that has nothing to do with age, though…
I’ve reached that period in my life where I’m starting to notice wrinkles, gray hairs and other foreign events. “Aging” is such a harsh word – “ripening” is a more subtle one, don’t you think?
Many of my friends and classmates my age are beginning to speak about grand-kids. How did we get that old? I’m not there yet! I have seven children of my own and the youngest is still 7! I can’t be a grandmother yet! I’m not old enough, am I?
I guess, according to my children’s ages, it is possible. The oldest ones are 24, 22, 20, and 18. The younger ones are 13, 10, and 7. Because I’ve spent so many years tending to younger children, I didn’t quite notice that my older ones have gotten as old as they are. Apparently, they are aging faster than I am. I can’t think of any other explanation.
So, I guess I’ll put my go-go boots and halter tops away and drag out all my yarn and needles and set up the quilting hoop. I’ll don my Velcro-strapped, rubber soled shoes, add chains to my glasses, and start stocking my cookie jars with cookies.
I’m trying to relish the years I have left with my younger ones, although I’m not the “young Mom” I was with my older ones. Now, when I attend class functions with my youngest, Kiera, I marvel at the women who Kiera’s classmates address as their mom. They look like high school age baby sitters! These “moms” don’t say too much to me – I think they’re not sure whether to address me as Kiera’s grandma or not.
As the older ones have left home, there is a mixture of pride at my children who are beginning to make their own way and a carefully tucked away sorrow that is quite hard to explain.
This is what many have termed as their children “leaving the nest.” I have an urge to snatch them back and bring them back within the nest, building it up so that they will stay there always.
I recognize just how unreasonable that sounds, but it is hard to let them go.
Thinking more on this, I prefer to visualize it in a different way. Rather than birds leaving the nest, flying away to parts unknown, I like to think of their childhood as a garden instead. They’ve been nurtured, their roots growing strong. They’re cuttings from my own growth and they’ve grown and developed, ready to plant their own gardens.
I’m still going to wear my ponytail and hoop earrings, though.