About a week ago, It happened.
One of those memories that pops up on your phone when you’re not expecting it. Just a picture from years ago. The Fourth of July.
There we were. Me and my youngest son. He was probably four or five years old, sitting on my lap watching the fireworks. I had my hands over his little ears to protect him from the loud booms, and he had his finger in his mouth. Something he always did to soothe himself.
And just like that, I was back there.
I could almost feel his little body sitting on my lap. I could remember what it felt like to have him that close. To be the person he climbed onto when the world got a little too loud.
And suddenly, I missed him.
Not the grown man he is today. I love that version of him, too.
But I missed my four-year-old little boy.
I missed him so much it hurt.
And of course, that one picture sent me down a rabbit hole. I started scrolling through years of pictures of all four of my boys. Birthday parties, Big Bear trips, beach trips, holidays, and ordinary days that didn’t seem all that extraordinary at the time.
And with every picture, I found myself missing a different little boy.
Missing their voices. Their faces. Their little personalities. Missing the way each one of them needed me in his own way.
I missed being their momma when they were little.
I missed being the one they ran to. The one who could make things better. The one they wanted when they were sick, scared, hurt, or just needed someone to hold them.
I missed being needed like that.
And that’s a hard thing to admit, because isn’t this exactly what we raised them to do?
Grow up. Become independent. Build their own lives. Figure things out without us.
That’s the goal, right?
And they did.
All four of them.
And I’m so proud of the men they’ve become.
I love watching them be husbands. Watching the way they love their wives and girlfriends. Seeing how they treat the women in their lives with love and respect.
I love seeing that they’re gentlemen. That they’re good friends. That they’re the kind of men who show up for the people they care about.
There’s something really special about watching the little boys you raised become good men.
I look at them all the time and think, Wow. Those are my boys.
The same little boys who needed me to tie their shoes, wipe their tears, and remind them to brush their teeth are now grown men building relationships, loving people, and making lives of their own.
And I get to watch it all.
I don’t get to be part of every moment anymore, but I get to see the people they’re becoming. And I love that.
Maybe that’s one of the gifts of this stage of motherhood. You spend all those years pouring everything you have into raising them, and then one day you get to stand back and see some of that love being poured into other people.
And , that makes my momma heart proud.
I may miss the little boys they were, but I sure do love the men they have grown into.
But nobody tells you how much you can miss a season of life while being genuinely happy that your children have moved on to the next one.
I looked back at that picture of my youngest son sitting on my lap, my hands covering his ears, and something else hit me.
I can’t do that anymore.
I can’t cover their ears when the world gets too loud. I can’t shield them from every disappointment, heartbreak, mistake, or hard thing life throws at them.
And maybe that’s the hardest part of being a mom to grown children.
You spend years protecting them, guiding them, and trying to make their world a little softer. And then you have to learn how to stand back and let them live in it.
You have to trust that what you poured into them all those years was enough.
That they know how to find their way.
That they’ll be okay even when you’re not there to make everything okay.
And somewhere in the middle of all those pictures, I realized something.
Things are exactly the way they’re supposed to be.
My boys were never meant to stay little. They were never meant to need me forever in the same way.
They were meant to grow.
And I was meant to let them.
But I’m still trying to figure out this stage of motherhood.
I have four grown sons. Four men with their own lives, their own responsibilities, their own plans, and their own worlds that don’t revolve around me anymore.
And that’s exactly how it’s supposed to be.
But where does that leave me?
I don’t call them nearly as often as I want to. I don’t see them nearly as much as I’d like. Not because I don’t want to, but because I never want to be that mom. You know, the helicopter mom who can’t let go, who calls too much, who makes her grown children feel like they have to check in with her.
So I give them their space.
But let me tell you something.
I check their locations several times a day. Yep, I’m that mom. I may not call, but I sure do like knowing where they are.
I pray for them every single day. Sometimes by name, sometimes about something specific they’re going through, and sometimes just asking God to watch over them because I can’t.
And they’re always on my mind.
Always.
I wonder if they’re happy. If they’re doing okay. If they’re eating well, sleeping enough, making good decisions. I wonder about the things they don’t tell me. The things they might be carrying that I know nothing about.
And I have to remind myself that I don’t need to know everything anymore.
That’s a strange adjustment for someone who once knew everything about their little worlds.
I used to know when they were hungry, tired, scared, or getting sick before they even said a word.
Now I have to trust that if they need me, they’ll call.
And maybe that’s what this season of motherhood is teaching me.
How to love them just as fiercely without holding on so tightly.
How to be available without hovering.
How to let them figure things out without always trying to fix them.
How to trust God with the parts of their lives I can no longer reach.
I spent so many years being the person they needed.
And now I’m learning how to be the person they know will always be there.
To My Four Boys,
If you ever wonder whether I still think about those days when you were little, I do.
More than you’ll ever know.
I remember your little hands, your sleepy faces, your laughter, your tears, and the million ordinary moments that made up our life together.
I miss those days. I miss those little boys.
But I wouldn’t trade the men you’ve become just to have those days back.
I love watching you build your own lives. I love seeing who you are becoming. And even though I may not call as often as I’d like, even though I try to give you room to live your lives, please know that you are never far from my thoughts.
You never have been.
You never will be.
And to the other mommas out there who are figuring out this strange new season of motherhood, I see you. I feel you.
The ones who scroll through old pictures and feel that little ache in their chest.
The ones who want to call but don’t want to interrupt.
The ones who miss the noise, the mess, the little voices calling “Mom!” a hundred times a day.
The ones who are proud of their grown children but sometimes wish they could hold their little ones just one more time.
Maybe we’re all just learning how to be mommas in a different way.
And maybe it’s okay to miss what was while loving what is.
Because no matter how old they get, no matter how far away they go, or how little they need us…
They will always be our babies.
And we will always be their mommas.
