This morning marked a bittersweet milestone as I navigated the drop-off line at my sons’ preschool for the very first time. Watching my 3-year-old, with his backpack slung over his shoulder, clasp hands with his teacher and wave goodbye, I felt my heart swell. That goodbye was drawn out, filled with a proud grin that lit up his little face.
And then it hit me—I lost it. Tears streamed down my face in an uncontrollable flood, an ugly cry that I doubt my partner, Mark, had ever witnessed. I arrived at my 10:00 therapy session looking like a hot mess, with tears pooling on my lap.
Now, let me clarify: crying after dropping off my kids isn’t my usual style. I’m not typically the sentimental type. Sure, I’m emotional, but with three boys born in quick succession (my first was just two months shy of turning three when the youngest came along), I’ve been too busy to indulge in sentimental reflections.
When my oldest learned to crawl, I was busy grappling with severe morning sickness during my second and third pregnancies. All I could feel was relief that his cries for a toy out of reach would finally stop.
On my firstborn’s first day of preschool, I didn’t return to a serene, quiet home. Instead, I took my six-month-old back to nurse and change before heading out to the grocery store. Believe me, shopping with one child was a breeze compared to two!
By the time my middle child took his first steps, I was in the hospital dealing with pregnancy complications. When he took his second steps, I was scrubbing marker off the walls, courtesy of his big brother. I found solace in the fact that he could finally keep up with his sibling, which significantly reduced the whining.
And when my youngest looked up at me and said “Mama” for the first time, I was at a loss. I felt empty—postpartum depression had drained all joy from motherhood for me. I was engulfed in an endless whirlwind of chaos, struggling just to stay afloat, too preoccupied to fully embrace those fleeting yet monumental moments.
But a change has come over my life in the past year. My youngest is now almost 2½, and I no longer feel like I’m drowning. I’ve learned to take deep, rejuvenating breaths that allow me to savor each moment, acknowledging the preciousness of time. I’m finally learning to feel.
For four years, I’ve dropped off one, two, or three kids at preschool without shedding a tear. They’ve cried plenty, but I’ve always been the composed mom who quickly departs to tackle my never-ending to-do list. This morning, however, as I tried to make sense of my tears (therapy, remember?), I realized something profound: I had always been the one leaving.
Today, for the first time, my kids left me.
It felt incredible to finally acknowledge the deep emotional imprints left on my heart by those three little lives. My boys are no longer infants; they’ve moved past learning to walk and talk. Yet they’re still on a journey of discovery, waking each day with bright eyes, eager spirits, and an unquenchable zest for life. They’re learning to navigate the world, pushing boundaries and testing limits, slowly becoming more independent. And as they grow, they invite me to join in the magic of the little moments that unfold. They’re calling me to watch, to engage, and to be present.
I’m here now. I’m tuned in, learning to embrace my role as the sentimental mom so I won’t miss the wonder.
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Summary:
This heartfelt piece reflects on a mother’s journey toward embracing the sentimental aspects of motherhood. Jenna recounts her emotional struggles and realizations as she navigates the busy life of raising three boys. The article emphasizes the importance of being present and cherishing the small, magical moments that come with parenting.