I loved college. I remember clearly the feeling of possibility and wonder when searching the course catalogue. The warm embrace, and peculiar flavor, of each of my school’s libraries. Where the best morning, afternoon, or evening library nap locations were… I did two bachelor’s: a BMus in Organ Performance and a BA in French. It was a five-year track; that’s how much I loved school. I spent many of my school breaks on campus or in town doing special projects, like building and maintaining organs or building clavichords from a kit. Although I was aching to bust out of some of the more unhealthy aspects of my college experience, it was overall, and still is, an experience that I valued highly.
My love of learning was ultimately my downfall in the ivory tower. When I spent my third-year fall semester abroad I had a lighter course load and a lot of time for wandering around Paris. Weekends to relax? Museums to leisurely peruse? A semester defined not by stress and late nights, but still a learning explosion? I could hardly conceive of it at the time. My whole learning career had been centered around hard work and anxiety and stress and making multiple deadlines at a time and self-worth from stress. But this semester turned that upside down; I was expanding in every way but my mental health was actually good. Going back to Oberlin for my final two and a half years was very different than my first two years had been. I would joke to myself that I’d been ‘ruined’ on school. But honestly, I had seen through the façade and was changed. I now knew that half of what was built into the high education system, the stress, competition, overwork, was all unnecessary to learning. It was definitely a glimpse of the tiny man behind the curtain. I still took some fantastic classes my final semesters at Oberlin, but I no longer had the will to sacrifice myself or do all the things. My former goals, a master’s, doctorate, teaching position, all eventually evaporated. Although there’s some grief in what could have been, I’m here much happier than I think I could have been had that youthful Plan A worked out.
So here I am, over ten years out from the end of my institutional education contemplating the end of another life stage. My first baby is a kindergartener and my second is firmly in the toddler stage. Her birth was almost two weeks earlier than her older brother’s, so although it was firmly in the full-term range, it was earlier than I expected, over quickly, and left me with a feeling of sadness over no longer being pregnant. Maybe ever again. My second postpartum was so much better an experience I would turn often to my husband and say just how much I wanted this again. And while a third baby isn’t off the table, nothing is guaranteed and I want very much to embrace the present, not an imaginary future. And even if we did add to our family there would always eventually be a last baby. A last babyhood. A last year in elementary school, a final year in high school. Then an ’empty nest.’ The stages are inevitable because change is the nature of the universe. As I face any questions of what next, I am guided by my values. Firstly, I am committed to living in the moment and that means soaking up the age and stage my children are in. But I’m not happy as a sahm. Been there, did that, and we both felt unbalanced and unfulfilled. Currently what works for my family is for us both to work part time and parent very hands-on. I think a lot more people would choose this arrangement if economics allowed it. But that’s a digression.
Accepting the grief of the passing of a phase in life is a part of the process. I don’t want to be the kind of parent who holds her children back, infantilizes them, or otherwise loses her selfhood in her children. I think this happens mainly because of the discomfort of accepting the changes inherent in life, particularly in childhood. There’s a real grief at looking at my kindergartener and remembering him at the age my daughter is at now. To deny this grief comes with a cost: not living in the moment. And that radiates out to those around you through disordered relationships based on old information.
Contemplation is about taking a ‘long, loving look at the real’ (Walter Burghardt). For me, that’s leaning into the discomfort inherent in a passing stage, particularly these short ones of young childhood. I savor the way my children mispronounce words one day, and then hear them say it correctly the next. Last night my daughter woke up thirsty at 1 a.m., not an ideal time for me. After nursing and bringing her water, I picked her up one more time and she rested her head on my shoulder. Such a tender position I long for more than I get; she’s usually more interested in nursing than just cuddling. As I swayed gently with her, I thought back to the last time Theo lay his head down on my shoulder like this. Not for a long time, as he’s currently over three feet tall and over 50 lbs. And he rarely sits still long enough for these cuddles, anyway. I’m not going to glamorize the sleeplessness of these days, but I am going to file away these experiences as part of the beauty of this stage, even as I look forward to a future with more sleep and capacity for my projects.
What I take from saying goodbye to these phases is to keep my values at the forefront, stay in the moment, and allow even my smaller decisions to be subject to comparison to my overall values. This requires me to slow down, sit with the present, and calm myself when tempted to react rather than respond.
If you enjoy these daily prompts, I hope you’ll consider joining me on contemplative writing prompts. This week’s prompt is here.
Actually an Artist 
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