All, Nothing, or an Imperfect Something

Letting go of the idol of having all of our kids in one place

My eldest son had been gone away to college only a handful of days when we hit our first scheduling conundrum. We had set his first home visit two weeks out, in late August, but since he had been selected to play club soccer at school that wasn't going to work; he now had his opening match that weekend, and since it was an away game, a trip home just couldn't happen. That pushed out his visit to the following weekend... when his younger brother—still homeschooled— was slotted to be away. The next weekend was no better. As a matter of fact, someone was pretty much always guaranteed to be coming or going.

Feeling miserable, I flung myself on my bed and started sobbing. (Yes, I actually did this. But my husband is amazing and never batted an eye at my histrionics in that season of seismic change.) After I recovered from the first waves of overwhelm, I grabbed my iPad and desperately began swiping through our family’s shared calendar, looking for the first possible weekend we could have the perfect reunion on which I had set my heart.

It was in mid-October.

Before I could fall apart again, my husband gently reminded me of yet another of the truths that I suspect will guide this new season in our parenting journey:

We can put life on hold and wait for the picturesque All, but in doing so, we risk getting Nothing instead. Better— and healthier— to accept the imperfect Something.

I want to say that I immediately snapped to my senses and abandoned the vision I had already crafted of a sweet, family-focused weekend of watching the kids kick soccer in the side field while I brought a cobbler to the picnic bench, or of all of our voices again united in family worship. But I didn't. I lamented the bittersweet hole that would be filled, for just a few days, in my heart, while I mourned the separate hole that would open. I grieved the loss of the sweet "full nest" feeling I had been hoping to touch again.

I did finally get there, to that place where I saw that I no better than Aesop's The Dog and The Shadow, but it wasn't until I actually heard my husband count out the extra days I was willing to add to my purgatory of waiting for our eldest son to come home. When I realized how foolish I was being in clinging to an imagined perfect that wasn't promised, I felt sick.

Years ago, I told myself that I wouldn't be that mom. I wouldn't set up expectations that my adult kids couldn't fulfill because they had no idea that I had a scene already painted in my mind and they weren't playing their parts just right. I wouldn't guilt them into showing up. I wouldn't force my idea of family time on them. And I wouldn't deny myself the joy of spending time with any of them simply because I wasn't getting to spend time with all of them.

And here I was... just out of the starting gate, and failing miserably.

I didn't realize when I made the vow to avoid the manipulative mom pitfall just how hard it would be to live up to the low pressure, come as you are, “our door is always open,” “I understand if you can't make it,” lifestyle I wanted to give to my children. I didn't realize how much I would prize the thought of having every face accounted for around the breakfast table, how full my heart would be when I could look from left to right and see, right there, nearly every person I treasure most in this world.

I didn't realize that though I feel the absence of one of my daughters (who lives with her family in Nepal) every day, there actually is still more room for that specific ache in my heart, and maybe even a greater, deeper longing for everyone stateside to be here, under one roof. I didn't realize it could make me crazy, and unreasonable, and maybe even a little desperate.

Now I know.

The irony here isn’t lost on me. The reason I committed to “no pressure” parenting is rooted in my own experiences. Throughout married life, my husband and I have proven ourselves to be endlessly disappointing to extended family. I couldn’t begin to count the number of times I’ve fielded comments about how some gathering was almost perfect but, of course, we were missing. Living in other times zones—sometimes on other continents—tends to make one miss things like birthday parties and baseball games. Add to that the fact that we have always had the largest number of people to juggle on our own end, and in truth will choose our own sanity and set boundaries as needed as a matter of course, and we’ve never fallen into line. We’re missing from many, many family photos, from memories made around the table or in the yard. Our lives have gone on even as theirs have, and while we prioritize space for togetherness, we refuse to do so at the cost of stretching the fabric of who we are so thin that it can no longer cover us.

Today, people comment on how I seem to have so naturally fallen into the role of being the mother left behind, the beacon lighting the way home for the ships that have left port. I happily count on my six kids still at home to be around my table, and if others come by, if older siblings can commit to being part of a celebration or casual afternoon, I welcome it. I will take my something. Would it be made more perfect by the inclusion of more faces, more laughter, more stories being told? Sure. I’d love to have them all here. But something is always, always better than nothing.

That first meltdown I described struggling over happened seven years ago now. If you’re just now meeting me at this point in the story then yes, that letting go might seem effortless. But please know that it wasn’t. It was a conscious choice. A purposeful peeling away of my “rights” in favor of allowing for the independence and free will God had designed for this season all along. It was measuring my expectations against reality, against love, and against the kind of mother and mother-in-law I wanted to be. There have been lessons learned, feelings hurt, and new traditions made. And here I stand today, so, so grateful that the Lord kept my mouth shut during that learning curve and gave me the gift of not demanding that we all occupy one space on thus and such day, or spouting off about how the day would have been perfect if only…

Easter is in 9 days. If I think of it, if I have time, I will pose six of my children on the picnic table that sits under our wide old maple tree. They will bunch together in a tight little knot— teens, tweens, and a preschooler, with so much space around them. Space where their siblings, their bothers- and sisters-in-law, their nieces and nephew would fit so beautifully. That afternoon, two of those families will join us for dinner. There will be more space at the table that could be filled. The laughter could be louder.

But oh, we will go on with an imperfect Something of a holiday, all of us enjoying catching up and laughing and missing the people who aren’t there but enjoying every second with the ones who are. Will I think of how much better it would have been if they all were there, how cherry-on-top perfect it would be if more cars pulled down the drive and brought the rest of my people home? Maybe. But probably not. These days, I praise God for the something I get, and thanked Him for steering me away from the stubborn nothing so many will willing to accept as they plan and plot and wrangle to their idea of perfect.

The beauty of my surrendering to what is offered rather than demanding what I “deserve,” is that more often than I expect, I get that perfect. It happens despite my lack of coercion, or pushing everyone into a corner. Days line up. People hear that so-and-so is coming and want to be part of it. It comes together. Without me saying, “No, don’t come until they’re free. We’ll be solo this holiday so we can all be together the next.” Without me pointing out how long it’s been since the last drive into town. I don’t have to be that mother to get it all. They actually want to be here. And ultimately, isn’t that what our greatest hope is? Not that they’ll all be lined up around the table because we said so, but that they will choose to be at the table at all. For me, that’s always been the goal.

In Christ,

Heather