Notes on Motherhood from My Comfy Chair

There is a moment, someday in your future, when you will look up and realize that you are alone. Not forever. It’s not a tragedy. Nothing happened, except time.

All those hours of parenting you did will fade into a blur that is your children’s childhoods. Now they are teens. Now they are adults. Now they don’t need you the same.

Being alone isn’t sad, exactly. Yet, I sit on my yellow chair by the window, and I feel a sense of panic. What do I do? What do I do now? Eight babies in eleven years. It went so fast. It took so long. All the crying and teething and diapers and peanut butter sandwiches and shoes that were always misplaced.

And then, very suddenly, they’d moved on to school, and I was teaching them. Bumbling through. Treating it like a job. Hating it most days. Loving it some. The frightening weight of knowing that they needed an education, and it was on me to give them one.

Setting up the school room with desks and a chalkboard and the American flag in the corner to make us feel legit. A million hours of study ticked out by the clock on the wall. Workbooks, flashcards, spelling tests, and book reports all cluttering a house that always smelled like freshly sharpened pencils.

But over the years, the pencils turned into computers and textbooks and college applications. Play dates were replaced with drama productions and soccer games and driving lessons where my knees ached from pushing an invisible brake on the passenger’s side.

I Should Have…

There is a part of me that is freaking out. I should have done it better. I should have taken more time to slow down and see. I should have been present. I should have loved homeschooling more. I’ll never get it back.

That panicky part of me thinks I should have another baby quick, at forty-seven, and this time, do it right. Soak in every moment, knowing that potty training and math facts and dance practices don’t last forever.

So many of the opinions that fly at me now from my children really sting. The half-understood truths of baby adults. It’s humbling. It’s frightening. I’m learning to be still and listen.

But They Came Back

The most comforting part of it all, though, is that they come back. From my yellow chair, in my silent house, I hear the screen door swing as soccer cleats and car keys drop to the floor. I hear the fridge door open and a sigh as they take in the shelves full of food. I hear, “Mom, there’s nothing to eat.”

Later on, baskets of dirty clothes are brought in from a clunky, old car because, “Mom, it costs three whole dollars to do laundry at my apartment.”

On Sundays, I entice them with steak and peach pie for dinner. Anyone’s welcome to join us, and I look down the candle-lit table in wonder at all of the people brought into my life.

What a gift. What a blessing! Ah, so this is middle age, I think to myself with a smile. I climb into bed at seven with wrinkle cream on my face and a little prayer of thanksgiving. Very nice.

About Heather Hibl

Heather Hibl, Seton Elementary Counselor, lives in the Blue Ridge mountains of Virginia with her blue-eyed husband and her eight blue-eyed children. She is always missing the ocean and nearly always craving blueberry muffins. Obviously, her favorite color is blue. Oh, and she also likes to write.