A Mother’s Goodnight Blues

Every time she walks away she is not the same the next day.

Every time I say goodnight and squeeze her tight

She seems to have taken flight and grown over night.

With changing times comes changing stages

The end of one is near

The bud of a new is clear

I cannot control it as it slips past me in silence

Undetected

Just for a moment I wish I could be

Reconnected

My heart begs in vain for the past to return

But there is no sense in looking back

I notice it only when the moment has passed.

She used to beg me to stay up just a little longer each night

But I stayed firm with all my might.

Now it’s me that stalls and begs the clock

To tick and tock

A little slower

Just one more hug

Pretend I can

Stop the hand

That is more stubborn than I am

To say goodnight is now so sad because

I am the one who cries each night

Begging time

To leave her

Behind.

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I wrote this a few nights ago after sending my daughter, Ms. G, off to bed. She recently no longer wants to be tucked in, but rather prefers to go to bed on her own. As she walked away after a hug and kiss goodnight I felt a lump in my throat. Her changing body is evidence of the silent time that passes. Every year on her birthday I mark her height down on a growth chart that hangs on her bedroom door. It is no longer her change in height that astonished me this one evening, but all the changes that come with…puberty. I can’t even write the word down. It seems so final. I have to admit I’m internally struggling with this stage in life. I know—natural progression of life—it happens to every child—we went through it ourselves…blah, blah, blah. I get it intellectually speaking, I just can’t help but wipe the tears that are flowing down my face at the moment. It’s so hard to say goodbye to her child form, to my little girl. It’s the caterpillar changing into its beautiful butterfly self, but it doesn’t change the fact that the caterpillar is officially gone. It’s the finality of the changes that I’m struggling with. I think I’ve always struggled with endings, even if I know new beginnings can be exciting too. Why do beginnings have to essentially be endings as well? There are moments when she seems so serious, pensive, no longer as carefree as she once was. Then, a glimmer of hope—her child-like giggle and a leap and tumble on the carpet shows me she is still there in some form. Today I told her she can remove her sweater if she would like because it was getting warm. Her response made my heart flutter. She said, ”It’s ok mama, I look a little more like you with it on”. I held back my tears. How much longer do I have? How much time before she realizes I am not the centre of her world anymore? Damn the time. My sophistic, beseeching argument feels futile—it is no match.

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