Greedy

But I want her for me. I want all of them for me. I find myself greedier and greedier for my kids’ childhoods as it becomes clearer and clearer just how little of them remain. I want to eat them up.

Is it want? Or is it need?

Something is shifting. Something strange.

For the past decade my kids have been so greedy for me. They’ve grasped and gobbled at my attention, my ability to provide pretzels, my physical being. They want to eat me up.

Meanwhile, I too have been greedy for me. I’ve grasped and gobbled up whatever meager alone time I can gather: time to work, to write, to stare into space. God, it’s scarce. And God I’m mean about it. Good luck to the child (Number 3. d.) who awakens before the sanctioned 6:30 A.M. wakeup time and dares to interact with me during my quiet morning moments.

But I’m noticing something weird when it comes to my oldest.

At almost ten, she remains greedy for me. She asks to join me for errands, walks, vacations, work trips, “anything without the boys!” She talks over them to make sure that I know all about her days and she requires more gas mileage for her extracurriculars than the other three put together. 

And yet.

Those extracurriculars take her away from us. Her strengthening friendships pull her toward birthdays and slumber parties. Weekend playdates are becoming the norm. And slowly, I notice the extent of my own greed for my kids.

“The girls are having so much fun at bowling!” reads the text from a fellow mom. “Would you mind if your daughter comes over to our house after? We’ll feed her dinner.”

I very much mind! Is my inward response. I haven’t seen her in three hours! I miss her and the boys miss her. I want to know every detail of her time today. I want to hear all about how her relationship with your daughter has deepened on this, their first playdate! I want to show her how I tightened the screws on her loft so it’s less wiggly and a picture of a sweater I was thinking of buying. I am making lasagna!

But I am magnanimous. “Ohhh how fun!” I tap out. “That’s fine with me if she wants to. Sounds like a great time [smiley face!]”.  

Because it does sound like a great time. Because I remember how much I loved play dates that morphed into magically longer play dates. Because I want that for her. 

But I want her for me. I want all of them for me. I find myself greedier and greedier for my kids’ childhoods as it becomes clearer and clearer just how little of them remain. I want to eat them up.

Merriam-Webster informs me that Greed is a selfish and excessive desire for more of something (such as money) than is needed. 

It’s that“than is needed” that stands out to me. How much of one’s children does a parent need? After all, I survived and thrived with no children at all. But… I wasn’t a parent then. To become one, I did need a child. So yes, maybe I, as a person, don’t need my children to live and breathe. But I, as a parent, sure do. 

The question is: how much? How much do I need to be in my babies’ business? How does that ratio change as my babies become less baby?

I know how much I want. It’s not inordinate. I want to know their every school day secret and private win and minor embarrassment. I want to breathe in their baby hair at all times. I want to subsume their very hearts into my own, soaking up and out any hurts that live there, keeping them safe forever and ever within my all-encompassing rib cage. 

That’s all.

Is that more than I need?

The thing is, the excessiveness of children’s wants is part of what makes them children. The excessiveness of my own is part of what makes me a mommy. And, as I’ve written before, I’m nearing the end of my Mommy chapter. I’m both sad and happy to enter into a new era. The Era of Mom. The Era of Bruh.

As kids go through the painful, exciting transition of needing us differently, we work through the painful, exciting transition of needing them differently.

As my older kids share less of their time and inner world with me, a part of me will painfully shrivel – even die – from need. But it’s a part that’s meant to die, to make way for something else: A new relationship where my children keep their own secrets and make their own lunches. 

For years, I have loved my children by giving of myself: my attention, my pretzels, my physical being. Soon, I will love them by letting them give themselves to others. I’ll do it, of course, play date by play date, party by sporting event, dorm room by dorm room (I’m not crying you’re crying shuttup). I’ll do it because I love them, of course. But more to the point, I’ll do it because there’s not really any other choice. That is how it works. That is how children grow up. That is how I grow up. That is how I become… Bruh.

Anyway, it’s all just anticipatory. My three-year-old lies sack-like on my lap. My five-year-old cries for me as he wakes from a nap. The eight-year-old is asking for more snacks. And the ten-year-old for whom I’m so greedy is equally greedy for me, a sweet spot of sorts, to finish writing so we can dish.