I’m struggling hard with this number. Most moms do, I’m guessing, but I may be wrong. I really don’t know a whole lot about what most moms do or feel or think. I’m lost in my own little world of being Libby’s Mom a lot of the time. So if you’re with me so far – if ten was hard for you – or if thinking about 10 coming up soon is enough to well up the eyes with hot tears – let’s bask in one of those increasingly rare moments that I get to look a friend in the eye and say, “I feel you mama.”
Ten is hard, I hear, because the sports and the clubs and the hanging out with friends starts to get inTENSE. I drove by a friend’s house the other day, whose youngest is ten. They are full-on sprinting through this season of utter calendar chaos and I just know, without asking, that she feels like she can’t breathe. I drove by on one of those gorgeous October days that the sunshine spills this overwhelming sense of peace and gratitude and general “it’s-gonna-be-okay-ness” all over everything. It’s the kind of day I would love to have nothing on the calendar, maybe take a family walk, maybe read a book outside, maybe hang the laundry out to dry in the sun one last time for the year. If I’m feeling really ambitious, maybe leave the house to pick some apples or something. And as I drove by, I noticed the complete quiet and calm around her house – not because she was basking in nothing-to-do-ness at home on a quiet, sunny Saturday – but because no one was home. Not mom, not dad, not kid 1, kid 2, kid 3, or kid 4. They were probably running all over in 10 different directions, trying to squeeze errands in between the activities, trying to eke every last drop of productivity out of those precious weekend hours. And hardly a moment to look up from the calendar and truly experience the beauty and wonder that a perfect October day has to offer. It’s just the reality of a really hard season of life.
Ten is different for us. Ten is knowing the mom friends and the little 4th and 5th grade classmates are out living that life – and not being a part of any of it. And being a little relieved that soccer and dance and running here, there, and everywhere is not for us, but stacking that relief with layers of intense grief and loneliness. Ten is feeling constantly exhausted by the endless monotony of what our ten looks like, but feeling unworthy of that exhaustion because it’s not earned in the same way the other moms are earning it. Ten is wanting more than anything to fit in and relate, and also wanting more than anything to just be seen for how very different this life is.
Ten is hard, I hear, because they’re growing up. You fought and clawed and gave up sleep for YEARS, and it’s finally paying dividends of independence and genuine talent and irresistible personality. You’re freaking PROUD and it just makes you cry and miss them so much even though they’re standing right in front of you. All that effort you poured in has helped to shape a pretty cool middle-sized human, one that you genuinely want to spend time with, talk with, laugh with, hang out with. And suddenly, ironically, heartbreakingly – you’re becoming the last person on earth THEY want to spend time with. And you feel you’re left with no choice but to turn over the reins to teachers and friends and the interwebs, because the more you fight it, the harder she pulls away. So you cry about it a little, you pray about it a LOT (on repeat for the next 10-15 years), and you accept that your influence and your voice are no longer the loudest for her.
Ten is different for us. Ten is growing physically bigger and stronger every day, but not in independence. Ten is still diaper changes and Baby Shark and and endless rotation of the same three foods she ate seven years ago. Ten is communication regression, rarely hearing any word other than “no” flow from your child’s lips. Ten is explaining bruised thighs and scratched-raw cheeks and shins because a lifetime of unresolved sensory frustration is now deepening into self-harm behavoirs. Ten is halfway to done with school, and school is our life preserver, and what the actual hell are we going to do when school is done? Ten is simultaneously grieving that she’s growing, and grieving that she’s not. Ten is an age, for many, when “I love you, Mom” goes away for a few years – but for us, it’s a full decade of never having heard it spoken once.
Ten is hard because friend drama, but ten is different for us. Ten is hard because there ARE no friends.
Ten is hard because school work, but ten is different for us. Ten is hard because there IS no school work.
Ten is hard and sixteen is hard and two is hard and twenty-six is hard and LIFE is hard for everybody. Our hard, right now, to put it simply, is being different. Specifically– being OKAY with being different.
In a matter of days, there is going to be a big, beautiful celebration of a big, beautiful girl turning ten. A girl whose smile and laughter are legit famous. A girl who smashes barriers and defies expectations every day. A girl who is completely amazing and completely loved.
But still – it’s going to be hard. And so will the next day and the day after that. And this I know: it’s really, really okay to share the hard stuff, too. So that in just a few days, when you see all the sparkle and shine and celebration and NONE of this yucky “life is hard” baloney – you can share more fully in the joy, understanding more fully the struggle. Because there is ALWAYS struggle lurking behind the perfectly filtered profiles – but man, oh man… am I EVER grateful for the friends who show their hard. Who allow me to sit in the hard with them. And who make me feel a lot less lonely wading through MY hard.
Thy Will Be Done 