As we drove my son home from school in Brooklyn today, I felt inspired to stop at the beach rest stop off the Belt Parkway on Jamaica Bay. I chose to stop at this stretch of beach because today was the perfect weather day. A balmy 70 degrees with a gentle breeze and warm sun, it made me want to get out of the office a bit to exercise my mind and body.
Beach debris was scattered throughout the sand and nearby dunes, as well as on the mud-covered shore, jutting out some 50 feet due to low tide.
Two school-aged brothers were out on the shelf of rippled sand left behind by the tide. They bent down with shovels and pails collecting snails while their parents watched nearby.
I was determined to walk to the end of the stretch of land unless I could go no farther. It looked close to a mile away. I picked up my pace, alternating between brisk walking, moderate walking and a slow jog.
“Mommy!” my daughter shouted at the top of her lungs from about 30 feet behind me. I stopped briefly but wanted to pick up the pace. She and her brother were gathering shells and rocks and touching old plastic bags.
“What? I’ll be right back!” I shouted, turning my head just enough to see them. I just wanted to make it to the end of the shore then turn around.
“Wait up!” screamed my son, intermittently stopping to smash shells with a giant sparkly black rock.
I pointed out the broken shell of a horseshoe crab, and stopped to examine several clam shells.
Then it came, roaring like an incoming wave, “You want to go away from us!”
The guilt, the accusation, just because I was walking ahead of them.
But it was symbolic of where I am in life now, too. My son just turned 6 and my daughter will be 5 in June. As my kids become more independent, I am in the process of finding out who I really am, and what I really want to do with my life from this point forward, not only as a mom and wife but as a woman and a person. I forge ahead, stopping sometimes to glance back, but I must keep on going, keep marching to my own beat lest I drown in the chaotic waves around me.
I slowed down a bit, but not much. When I reached the end, I could see the elevated Belt Parkway wind across the bay and the white boats bob on the dock by the houses on the other side.
I invited my children to join me in this small triumph.
“Come on, we made it!” I shouted.
As we stood together on a rectangular piece of wood, we all raised our arms like the Rocky statue we saw recently on our trip to Philadelphia.
Once we made it, I was done, and a bit tired. I wanted to start heading back to the place where we started, where the car was parked with my sleeping husband inside.
I began walking faster, but now my kids didn’t want to catch up to me, they wanted to drag out the visit. We passed by a rusty old tub with a bronze Styrofoam-like substance inside it. It glittered in the sun.
“Mommy, look!” shouted Juliana. “We found gold dust, like in Thomas and the Magic Railroad!”
I was now calling them, as they lingered behind, putting sticks in dunes, smashing shells with black rocks and filtering sand through the soles of their shoes, now worn from two seasons of running, biking, playing and just being kids.
“Come on kids, we’re leaving. Bye! We’re going to the car,” I admonished. I wanted them to walk faster now, and it wasn’t an easy feat.
It was then that I realized that the waxing and waning feeling of closeness and attachment you have with your children is much like the ebb and flow of the waves.
When the children were babies, I wanted to hold them forever. Attachment status: solid. But by the beginning of the school age years, the kids and I are torn. They are excited about their newfound independence, and they can get on quite well without me. But they also miss and adore me, sending me little love notes and giving me hugs and kisses. You certainly cherish the position of adored mom, but you need your space too, and sometimes think back (more often than you'd like some days) to the time when your decisions and passions were entirely your own.
As we approached the car, streams of light flowed out of the clouds. I picked up a white seashell, smooth and fragile but perfect, undamaged. I could hold it gently or I could crush it with my bare hand. I could hold It tightly or let it go. I decided to keep it. I put it in my pocket and felt its smooth ridges.
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