Bubbles out the Window

As our children age, we watch some dreams of our  happy family float out the window.  Like ducks waddling on the playground, or riding bikes together.   A young girl grabbing your legs so you don’t leave her side.

Now, she glares at you from across the room.  She rolls her eyes at you.  You remember when you did the exact same thing to your own mother.  You were told this would happen.  You told yourself even.  You were ready for it.  You remind yourself what a bitchy little teen you were.  You know it’s coming, but dammit, when your little girl tells you to leave her alone, either in words or with a flip of her hair, you realize that you are in no way ready for it.

You hurry to keep up with her as she stalks off a soccer field or up a different aisle in the store, and you remind yourself that this is normal.  She’s supposed to rebel.  You are doing your job right if your children try to get away from you.  She’s just growing up.

I remember when you used to hang onto my legs, you whisper, more to comfort yourself, than to her. We used to blow bubbles together.  You used to cling to me when we waded into rough surf.  You screamed at me when I diverted my eyes from you.

Now if I stare at you too long in your skimpy bikini, you tell me to quit watching you.    

I remember the endless afternoons with my children orbiting me like happy planets, spinning on the grass or playing on the swings.   I remember cooking as they played with dolls or trucks, always within earshot, often squarely in my view.

Now, I’m on a field with only one child.  I can’t see the other.  I tried to convince her to watch baseball with us.  But she’s adamant. She doesn’t like baseball.  It’s boring.  Well, if you watch it long enough you may like it.  Just come with us.

No.

I remember being a family seated together at the bleachers, she tugging at me as I tried to watch the game.  Now, the seat beside me is empty.  The tug is from across town, a different galaxy it seems. 

My friend and I mourn our aging family as we walk our dogs.  She offered to bring her daughter dinner while she waited at high school in between activities.  I cooked some fish the way you like it.  Mom, I’m getting burgers with my friends.  You don’t even like burgers.  Yes I do.  When the hell did that happen?

As you struggle with your sense of what used to be and how your family constellation is changing, you pretend you are ready.   You remember what you were like at her age. 

You were told this would happen.    You told yourself even.

But as those dreams float out the window, all you see are the bubbles you used to blow with your little girl.