I told someone today that I am okay with my kids having their own lives, homes and spaces. 

There. Mother of the Year.

I love my kids. Deeply. Fiercely. Probably annoyingly.

I also like them differently, not better just differently now that they have their own homes.

Apparently twenty-some years of motherhood has taught me that absence does, in fact, make the heart grow fonder.

Or at least makes it easier to overlook the cups, WATER BOTTLES..ENDLESS WATERBOTTLES they still leave on the counter.

And yet tonight I’m sitting here watching my granddaughter play with the neighbor kids and feeling weirdly sad about family.

Not my immediate family. Them, I’m building with. Slowly. Imperfectly. On purpose.

The bigger family.

The cousins. The aunts. The uncles. The holidays that used to feel like events instead of calendar negotiations.

Which feels a little hypocritical.

I want everyone together.
I DO. REALLY.

I just don’t want them living here. ALL AT THE SAME TIME.

Growing up, family gatherings felt permanent. Like they would always be there.

There would always be another Christmas. Another cookout. Another long afternoon with too many people packed into one house and somebody annoyed before dessert.

One side of my family was warm.

Warm. Loud. Full.

There were cousins everywhere. So many cousins. At one point in our lives we were more like brothers and sisters. We played together all the time. We grew up together.

The aunts could get after you like they were your parent.

They could also hug you and love you so hard you knew exactly where you belonged.

Sometimes they did both within five minutes.

They could make you feel beautiful while also letting you know your skirt was too short and maybe your boobs needed to be put away.

Family is efficient like that.

There were huge meals. Food with seasoning, love and a whole lot of bacon grease.

Heart healthy, obviously.

There was apple butter cooked over an open fire for two whole days. Everybody together. Everybody doing something. Or at least standing around talking while somebody else did something.

Also a family tradition.

The other side was different.

Campgrounds. Cards. Swearing. Competition. Teasing. SMALLER, MORE INTIMATE.

That’s where I learned euchre & DOG POOP WAS MOST DEFINITELY NOT A TURTLE. THIS WAS WHERE I MADE MEMORIES WITH GRANDMA SINGING ME SONG BUSHEL AND A PECK, DANCING WITH ME IN THE KITCHEN TO “I WANT TO BOP WITH YOU BABY”.

There weren’t a pile of cousins.

And Grandma’s food was definitely not the food from the other side. Salt and Pepper may have scared her a bit. 

Well, except for her homemade noodles. Those showed up every holiday, and thank God I learned how to make them.

We were told we had to eat everything on our plates so our boobs would grow.

Or SO WE COULD GROW HAIR ON OUR chest. 6 YEAR OLD ME WAS CONFUSED TOO.

It depended on the day and apparently our nutritional, BODY HAIR AND OUR BODY GOALS.

That side was loving too. Just a different kind.

It was card-playing, swearing, laughing, have-a-good-time love.

One side might hug you until you couldn’t breathe.

The other might tell you to deal the damn cards.

Balance.

Neither side was perfect. I’m not going to polish them up now and pretend they were.

They were loud. Messy. Complicated.

They were ours.

And I miss them.

Not because I want all of it back.

That’s the strange part.

I don’t want my kids moving home. I don’t want every holiday packed wall to wall. I don’t want to spend four days getting ready for people and another two recovering after they leave.

I like quiet now.

I like that my kids have their own lives.

I like that they come over and then, eventually, go home.

Maybe I don’t miss constant togetherness.

Maybe I miss the availability.

I miss knowing there were houses I could walk into and find people who had known me forever.

People who knew me before I had children.

Before marriage.

Before adulthood became whatever this messy happy madness is.

I miss cousins who were once as close as brothers and sisters.

I miss the aunts who could scold you, feed you, criticize your hemline and then love the absolute hell out of you.

I miss the people who made those rooms feel like those rooms.

Maybe that’s why the memories hurt.

The days weren’t necessarily better.

They were fuller.

There were more people in them.

Some of those people are gone now.

Others got busy. Moved. Grew apart.

Some of us, myself included, didn’t step up and keep it going.

That’s harder to admit.

Because it’s easy to say families drift. Time passes. Life gets busy.

All true.

But traditions don’t keep themselves alive.

Somebody called everybody.

Somebody opened the house.

Somebody cooked.

Somebody said, “What are you bringing?”

Somebody kept inviting people.

Somebody made the apple butter, dealt the cards and dragged out the folding chairs.

I didn’t notice the work when I was a kid. I thought that was just what family did.

Then those people got older.

Some died.

Some got tired.

And nobody quite replaced them.

Including me.

I was busy building my own family. Raising kids. Working. Surviving seasons I thought would never end.

Assuming there would always be another gathering later.

There usually isn’t a big moment when a tradition ends.

Nobody announces it:

This is the last time we will all be together like this.

That would at least give you some warning.

Instead, one year everybody is there.

Then a few people aren’t.

Then the holidays get smaller.

Then someone says, “We should all get together sometime.”

And somehow sometime becomes years.

Maybe it gets harder to gather because gathering makes it obvious who isn’t there.

Who you can’t share the food with.

Who you can’t laugh with.

Who you can’t hug anymore.

Maybe that’s part of why we don’t step up.

Or maybe I’m giving myself an excuse because admitting I let something important slip away feels worse.

Probably both.

Now I’m sitting here watching my granddaughter play with the neighbor kids and thinking about the childhood she’s having.

It won’t look like mine.

Maybe it isn’t supposed to.

She has the kids next door. She has our house. She has her own people and her own memories being made while I’m sitting here missing mine.

Which is—well, I really don’t know what it is. Not pleasant, I guess, because now I’m sad in both directions.

I’m old enough to understand that I’m one of the people who is supposed to help keep everyone connected now.

I still feel like one of the cousins.

This seems like poor planning.

One day you’re the kid running around outside.

Then you’re the mom telling everyone to put their shoes on.

Then suddenly you’re the person who is supposed to invite everyone, cook the food and apparently know how much potato salad to make.

I don’t remember agreeing to that.

I don’t think I want the past back.

Not exactly.

I think I just wish I could visit it.

Walk into one of those houses again.

See all those cousins.

Hear the laughing and swearing over the cards.

Watch the apple butter cook.

Eat Grandma’s noodles. Not my sad rendition of them.

Hug the people I didn’t know I was going to lose.

Let an aunt tell me my skirt is too short OR TOO TIGHT.

Then come home to my quiet house and be grateful everyone has their own address.

Balance.