He left yesterday afternoon, my son did. Left on a 25-hour, 1700 mile trek across the country for a new adventure. It's awesome. I'm a mess. A puddle.
I don't know why this is so hard. This isn't my first rodeo. When my oldest left for St. Louis 3.5 years ago, I thought in my heart it was temporary. It wasn't. When my youngest left for Iowa one year ago this week, I thought in my heart it was temporary. It wasn't. I realize that I don't have any such illusions this time. I have to know it could be for good.
People assume the sorrow is because I now have an empty nest...well, sort of. (My nest regularly refills with my 6 year-old granddaughter several times a week.) And no. It isn't that I no longer feel needed. And it isn't so much that I long to have some chick under my feathers to cluck over. I don't cluck. I never have. And my son refused to ever be clucked at. We were a good team that way.
It is just that I feel this absence so keenly. And I don't know why.
I don't know a lot of things these days. In fact I seem to know less than I used to.
But there is one thing I do know. I want my kids to thrive. I want them to go...go...GO out there. Wherever. I want them to go wherever they need to go and do whatever they need to do and be whatever God has called them to be. I don't ever want to hold them back or bring them down because I have some silly emotional need to be close.
I never had that freedom. Yes, I moved away from my home but I never felt that it was really OK for me to do that. It was never OK for me to be where I was or what I was or who I was. I never had the emotional backing from a mother to do my thing and be who God created me to be and not what she so wanted me to be. I refuse to do that to my children.
This is what I want for you, my children. GO, DO, BE. Wherever you need to. You have my blessing. And my love. Always.
.
Wednesday, February 20, 2019
Tender Spots
I have crappy posture and the neck muscles from hell. Every snippet of tension is stored in my upper back and shoulders. I guess you could say I have a chronic pain in the neck. (Some might say I AM a chronic pain in the neck.😂)
Because neck pain causes head pain, I am having regular visits with a physical therapist to retrain muscles to do something that I can’t explain but sounds reasonable. One is the techniques my PT uses is dry needling. Basically, he pokes these tiny needles directly into my muscle and leaves them there for 10 minutes. No. It’s not fun.
The interwebs say that if the muscle is healthy, it really won’t hurt that much. I can attest to that. Some of the needles don’t hurt that much. And yet others are a different story. Yesterday I went in to PT with increased migraine twinges and a sore upper back. The teeny, tiny needles felt like daggers slicing through my neck and stabbing my nerve endings. I squealed and squirmed and clawed at the vinyl on the table. “Your muscles are really inflamed and reactive today,” he said. No s**t.
I’ve had a really hard couple of weeks.
I am looking a life change in the face as another child sets off on a wonderful new adventure thousands of miles away. I want him to experience the best of life, wherever it may be, but my mother heart still just plain hurts.
The recent publicity regarding sexual abuse with Southern Baptist Churches has brought back to the surface those intense feelings of frustration and anger at those in power who refuse to listen to and protect the vulnerable in their midst. I am thankful that the truth is being told and apologies are being made but furious that it is taking public exposure to goad leadership into doing the right thing.
And, as per the usual, I am sure that this hard has something to do with hormones, too. (Damn, damn, DAMN you, menopause and send chocolate!)
The crux of the matter is that I hurt. Everything hurts. Advice feels like a condescending quick fix. Suggestions feel like a lecture. Silence feels like rejection.
I guess that is the way it is in life. There are times that, like my friggin neck muscles, we are extra inflamed and reactive and everything hurts, even the tiny needles that are meant to do us good.
My PT couldn’t see how inflamed my muscles were. He only knew by the amount of pain I got from the poke. I need to remember this the next time my well intentioned poke causes someone else pain. I need to be aware there may be hurt under the skin I can see.
We all, at times, have tender spots. Poke carefully.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)