Watching Them Grow

I came to pick up my youngest son from the kindergarten with his big brother who’s visiting briefly.

My eldest grew a mustache. It still feels surreal when I look at this young man, so much taller than me that I have to stand on the tips of my toes to give him a hug and kiss his forehead.

And here we are standing at the entrance of the kindergarten, and the little one comes out with a drawing he made for me and shows it to his brother proudly, and I look at them, my heart so full it’s about to burst.

I think of the time, so many years ago, when my eldest was in kindergarten and he’d draw me with my long dangling earrings — just like his little brother does. And now he’s sitting there with his mustache and long hair and earphones and strong opinions and this scary unknown future ahead of him that gives him anxiety. But he’s still that baby to me. He always will be.

I want to shout, “Stop, time! Slow down! What are you doing? I’m not ready!”

But I can’t. They need to grow. They need to change. They need to grow mustaches and beliefs and strong opinions and so much more.

I’m growing with them. Growing older, yes. But still growing. And as much as I want to stop the time, I also don’t. Because it’s such a blessing to watch them grow.

A Piece of Me

I’m looking at his suitcase.

It’s packed.

I don’t know if we’re forgetting anything.

There’s a great chance we are.

“Money and documents,” I say,

“That’s all that matters.”

But I think to myself,

“What really matters is that you’re starting a new chapter of your life. On your own. And a piece of my heart goes with you.

My life will never be the same. Neither will yours. And I don’t even know if you feel that piece of me that goes on the journey with you. I hope you do. I want to think it’s one of the essentials you can’t leave behind.

But I don’t know that.

So whatever is left of my fractured heart aches. It’s my problem, though, not yours.

You go. Spread those wings and fly. Face whatever awaits you. You’ve got this, I know.

Live your life. Make the best of it. Have fun. Make mistakes. Learn from them.

And that piece of my heart will always be with you, wherever you go. A souvenir from home. A keepsake. A guiding light, reminding you that you’re loved. So, so loved.”

But I don’t say any of this. Instead, I just remind him to pack all the chargers.

What a Funny Time

I’m watching my little son as he sleeps. Marveling at this miracle we’ve created. Trying to wrap my head around how perfect he is. And how this perfect human being came from inside me.

It’s such a strange season of my life. My youngest turns 5 next month. And no matter how cliche it sounds, these years just flew by in the blink of an eye. They really did. There was a lot that happened in these five years, of course. There was a whole pandemic that turned the world upside down. There was a start of my writing career that turned my life upside down. There were struggles, adventures, learning curves, moments of joy. Tears and laughter, hellos and goodbyes. Everything you could imagine. And yet, I look at this little angel (aren’t they all angels when they sleep?) and wonder—when did this happen?

I’m about to book a one-way flight to another country for my eldest son. He’s 18. He’s got a life of his own and rarely finds time for me. And he’s getting ready to embark on a journey of a lifetime, going abroad to study.

For a year, to start with.

Although he’s planning to stay longer. Okay, in fact, he’s not planning to return.

Which is a good thing, of course. We can never truly go back, we can only move forward. Besides, every journey, every smallest trip we take always cause irrevocable change inside us. You just can’t come back as the same person.

I know it. And I love it.

When it comes to my journeys.

But as I plan for my young adult’s departure, I realize that those eighteen years also flashed by. My little baby is not a baby anymore. And I have no idea how it happened.

Years.

Decades.

I’ve been building my life.

And a life for my kids.

Rebuilding it.

Sometimes from scratch.

Making decisions.

Going places.

Changing directions.

Countries, cities, homes, identities.

Am I even me anymore?

Who was me, anyway, and does it even matter, if I’m not her?

Who am I now, and who will I be next year?

I’m just someone who finds herself in a funny time.

Turned 45.

Published my 4th book.

Got my 1st tattoo.

Celebrated my mom’s 80th birthday.

Choosing a cake for my son’s 5th birthday.

Hoping my other son can come home for his Christmas break to celebrate his 19th.

Numbers.

They don’t define anything, yet they carry so much weight. We always rely on numbers, don’t we? They scare us but also ground us at the same time. As if they’re something we can desperately hold onto in this whirlwind of a life.

Except we can’t. Because numbers tend to change. They never stay the same. Because this is how time works.

Funny, crazy, weird time.

Why Do I Write?

There are many reasons. I’ve always wanted to write, and when I finally started, it felt so right that I almost regretted missing all those years. I’m saying ‘almost’ because I don’t really regret anything. The way my life went, the things I had to go through, and the lessons I learned, all of this has shaped me into the person I am today. And this is the person who is finally ready to tell stories.

Going back to the reasons for writing—there are plenty. But here’s one of the most important ones I want to focus on today.

I have two sons. 

I have a teenager who thinks he’s got life figured out. 

And I have a toddler who is only beginning to learn what this world is all about. And when he is the same age as his big brother is now, he’ll probably think the same.

It’s okay. They are learning. And I’m learning with them. 

But I’m also teaching them something too. 

I’m teaching them that it’s okay to follow your dreams. No… wrong wording. Following your dreams is the right way to go. It’s in fact the only way to go if you want to find yourself. And to stay true to yourself.

I’m teaching them that following your dreams can be hard. And scary. But it’s not a reason to give up.

I’m teaching them that it’s never too late to start. 

My teenage son is reading my book now. It’s not his preferred genre. And there’s a great chance  he won’t like it. But every time he picks it up, he’s holding physical proof of the fact that anything is possible. That it’s possible to start writing when you’re 40 years old, when you are raising a baby, when you hardly have any time or energy, but counteract it with enough stubbornness to type on your phone in the middle of the night. To type words in the language that is foreign to you. 

So maybe he’ll feel more hopeful.

He learns that if you don’t know how to do something, it’s possible to research and learn. For example, you can learn all you need to know about self-publishing your book. And while doing that, you can meet so many people on that journey. You can also genuinely connect with those people from all parts of the world. You can read their stories, support them, learn from them, and call them your friends. 

So maybe he’ll feel less lonely.

He learns that you can pour your heart out on the paper (or screen), wrapping it gently in words, linking those words together and making phrases, using those phrases to build stories. Stories based on your thoughts, your feelings, your imagination, your dreams, your joy, and your pain. 

So maybe he’ll learn to open his heart. 

And as for my little one, he is really obsessed with my book cover. Every time he sees my book, he needs to hold it. Well, I can’t blame him, the cover is absolutely stunning. But seriously, do you know why I think he’s drawn to it? Because he can feel what it means to his mom. He can feel what I invested in that book. And I’m not talking about the financial investment here, of course. He can feel the energy coming from a dream that came true. It’s pretty much like magic.

He’ll grow up and I’ll have many more books published. But I will tell him where it all started. How I decided to follow my dream when he was a little baby. How the chapters of that very first book were created while he was sleeping in my arms.

I’ll tell him this story and then I’ll say, “You see, son, anything is possible if you really want it. You need to be brave enough to start, and then you just keep going no matter how hard it gets. Don’t give up, don’t turn back, believe in yourself, and you’ll get there.”

These are the things I want to teach my kids. And what better way is there to teach than through leading by example?