I remember when my daughter was only two; she had struggled with severe reflux,sensory and physical issues. She was sick all the time and also had severe asthma. To help her along through these struggles, I had to take her to MRDD every day for therapies with other little toddlers that were struggling as well. Every day I would walk her in, and let her go…
I would sit in the parking lot in anguish. I never settled. Uneasy. Nervous. Always. I never could go anywhere far. I would just venture down the street and back. I hated not knowing what was going on in her little world. Some of the kids were very difficult to be around, and my angel needed protection. Protection I couldn’t provide.
I would walk back into the school with a fast nervous pace toward the classrooms where I knew she would be visible. I would urgently peer around the room with darting eyes to find her, then quickly assess and evaluate the situation. Did she look okay? Was she playing with other kids? Had she been crying? Are her eyes red? Does she have any scratches or bruises? (Yes- kids had been known to be aggressive there)
Once I was able to see that she was okay, I would let out the air I had sustained inside my lungs for those two hours I held it in. And then there were times I discovered in horror that she wasn’t okay. And it rocked me to the core. It was a cycle of true mother madness, as only anxious moms like me can understand.
I am not good at letting go.
I never was, and I never will be.
I don’t know what is more difficult today, my son looking at me with those big blue eyes longing to have one more hug, scared at the thought of being in school all day, asking if I can volunteer this very day, needing just a bit more adapting time to take this new life in…but knowing he has to shift into his “big boy” role in his new class. I watched him sit frozen in his desk with not so much as a blink in his terrified eyes.
Or walking my daughter into a new hallway with three new classrooms in a new school…not knowing a soul. She was up at six this morning. Anxious to jump off the cliff of her fear and rip off the band-aid of anticipation. She looked so uneasy, so shy, so small. The only kid standing alone awkwardly at her desk, as other kids ran around hugging each other with greetings of old friends entering yet again, a new school year together.
I had to let go…
I tend to over think. Over analyze. Over everything. It’s just how I am. Sometimes I wish I were different. But for today, I will persevere with a quiet angst and stay down the street waiting…
How are you doing with letting go?