Letting Go

I’m officially not a single mom anymore. Andy’s here. He’s moving his stuff in even as I write. Six months after we met -- again -- (we first got to know each other in 1995, but at that point in his life, he didn’t want kids and I couldn’t shut the damn alarm off on my biological clock) he has given up his life in the Rockies where he lived for 14 years, sold his house, left his friends behind, and today there are boxes piled in every corner of my little house.

Not only has he brought his stuff, he’s brought his big heart, his broad shoulders, and his wide open arms. What more could a woman ask for?

“I'm embracing us with open arms, no reservations or expectations. A very real feeling.” He wrote this to me one night six months ago, when we realized – with surprise and delight – that the escalation of romantic emails had led to love.

As of last Thursday, he’s here: in my life, in my heart, in my house. And not only does he love me, but he also loves my kids. What else a woman could ask for?

“I never wanted kids,” he told me early on. “And I can’t believe how much I like yours. I would have missed out on so much if my life had just continued on the way it was going. These boys are a real gift to me.”

Face it, girlfriends, with that, he was in. That’s the ultimate test!

Or maybe, the ultimate trial is what happens when the rubber hits the road. Like one morning in Canmore when we were on holidays and Secundo woke up early – not unusual, but this time I was grumpy. Andy took one look at me and got out of bed. “Let me do it,” he said gently. “Oh, no,” I said. “I’ll adjust my attitude in a minute … or two.” (The only thing worse than being grumpy with the world’s cutest two-year-old, is feeling guilty about it …)

Andy got my attention. He touched my forearm and looked into my eyes.

“What?” I said, a little irritable. It was after all, not much more than 6 in the am.

“This is a partnership, remember?”

“Oh,” I replied. “Yeah.”

“So, get back into bed and I’ll go hang out with the boy.”

All righty, then, more points.

In fact, I give him full points for integrating into our family unit -- not only has he figured out how to get a diaper onto a twitching toddler (insert on head first, imitate Elmo, tickle, then attach around butt with left hand while holding shiny object in front of the child with the right), and implemented the habit of drinking warm milk before bedtime, but today he once again asserted his weight in our partnership by asking me to stay home while he picked the boys up from their caregivers and delivered them to their dad’s house.

Secundo was sick and needed cuddling. I wasn’t there to do it. When Andy told me about it, my guilt bloomed profusely. (Are you noticing a theme?) But before I could shed the tears that welled up, Andy said, “It’s important for you to let me learn how to comfort him, and for him to learn that I can comfort him too.”

There’s a lot going on here. We’re all working hard. The little one who at two is adapting and adjusting to being away from his mom for three days every week. I who am letting go of the boys into their father’s care on those days and into Andy’s arms too. Andy who is opening his heart to all of us – including my ex. And their father who is accepting another man into his sons’ lives.

At five Primo has naturally moved on from momma. When we pick him up from his caregiver he races right past me into Andy’s arms. But a two-year-old is still all about his momma. I don’t want to let go of being the most important one in his life. There’s this feeling of pain in my chest, and nausea, that comes with that surrender.

But maybe it’s not about me. Maybe it’s more important that I think of him. What are his needs, given that it’s a fact of our life that he spends three days away from me?

He needs to learn to be secure and confident when he’s away from me. He needs to be comforted by the others in his life. He needs to be secure and confident in both his homes. Most importantly he needs me to be secure and confident, to be OK when he’s with me and when he’s not.

That’s my job right now. To let go of my children long before I imagined I would. Long before they push me away because I’m embarrassing them. Long, long before they’re heading off to Europe to go traveling or to university to study archaeology or Braille.

I have to let them go. I have to live with my grief without letting it taint my relationship with Andy. I have to allow them to have a full life with their father where I don’t get to see everything they do, and miss out on some of their milestones like when Primo lost his first tooth, or hear all the funny things they say (like That spider is going to grow up to be a tarantula, or Are we just puppets, or the two-year-old version of Dammit!).

So, I do. And I also build my relationship with Andy and launch our new life. And make damn well sure I write. I am not going to waste this chance, not going to dis this gift from the gods.

I am very thankful that Andy’s here. With Magic. “I like dogs now,” says Primo. And the Underwood Number 5 and the German bullet that lodged in his Dutch grandfather’s shoulder, and his mushroom lamp (yes, you heard that right), and his big heart, his broad shoulders, and his wide, open arms.

“It's crazy you’re in my head so much,” he wrote to me back when we were still talking via email. “It's scary and wonderful at the same time.”

“What’s scary about me?” I asked him

“Nothing,” he wrote back. “That's why.”

When I read that, my heart opened up in that way that made me believe what they say about the unconditional and limitless nature of love.

And with that newly opened heart, I love Andy. I love the boys. And I love myself. In fact, I can’t see that there’s ever been a more important time to love myself. To forgive myself for the grumpy mornings. For the times I make mistakes, when I trip and fall. To treat myself with the same gentleness and respect that I give to the boys.

Now, it’s time to go have dinner with Andy. To eat food without a wriggling toddler spilling cheese on my lap, or a lippy five-year-old insulting the cauliflower. To have wine instead of whine. To discuss matters of great import (or small) without someone asking how pillows are made.

To go and listen to my lover, and learn something new about him today.

To feel the grief in one of the chambers of my vast heart and to also feel the happiness and the gratitude and the love.