Behind the Ropes...

Yesterday was my 3rd time behind those ropes... watching my kid walk away from me, knowing he hated that he had to, him knowing I hated that he had to, both of us not hiding very well that this moment epically sucks. Over this last year I think I've proven myself to him, that at the very least he knows by now this is not the end. That my words "no matter what" mean something. Maybe not understanding just how very "there" I will be for him, but he knows that when he lands in Frankfurt there will be a message, and another when he lands in Kyiv, and I will be there commenting on all his photos with his friends getting their gifts and hanging out and again not hiding very well the fact that this still really sucks. We are similar in some ways. Some ways that will come to bite us. But in other ways that it makes the way we communicate, or sometimes don't communicate, understood. Sometimes I think I make it all up in my head, this style of parent son relationship we have, but then he let's me know, I get to him.

I tell him I love him, hug his neck, take a photo and he looks at me and I know what he's saying. "I love you and I wants to say so but I can't here, and mama please don't loose it right now because we are strong and we've got this, right?... I need us to be strong right now." I have no idea how a look can say that but it can. And I say goodbye and I wave and I cry, a lot, but not enough to make it look like I am from 2o yards away. And there I am, stuck behind the ropes. Everything in me wanting to sprint across those flimsy barriers, grabbing my kid, throwing fists at anyone who tries to stop me, and jumping in a car to drive home. It doesn't work like that, and we are stronger than this stupid world of upside down rules that has brought us to this 3rd goodbye, so we just stare and wave and post fun photos and wait for the day that the real work begins. The work that happens when we have to start saying these things. The work that happens when our hearts have to bust open some more, where looks start to turn into words and processing this messed up road it took to get to our family being whole.

I finally can't see them anymore, not a glimmer of any familiar tuft of hair sticking out over the barriers. Turning around and walking away myself is harder than watching him walk away. I guess that's what moms do, I guess that's why even though it's easier in some ways to have a kid that can make himself dinner in a pinch and take the trash to the road, teenagers are so much harder on the hearts. They are always walking away in some proverbial or real sense. My heart isn't ready for this, but it has to be. I have 1 more year with this kid until he could opt to be shipped off to war. I know I have many more with him but that's a reality I face as I stand in that spot, frozen. I give up another few precious months with this boy, and it's painful.

As I finally muster up the courage to turn and walk away, I feel this small smile. We did it right, this goodbye was perfectly awful. We are learning, we are changing, we are growing. One step closer to new normal. One step closer to family. One step closer to right. There are still so many things that could go wrong. He is still not mine. He is still a hard road away from the life he wants, and I still can't promise we will achieve it. But he is son, and I am Mama, and slowly it becomes more real. I get on the bus, get through my domestic security, find myself a chair in front of the football game, and wait for my plane back home. At midnight I pull into the driveway, walk through my door, put my bag down, take off my shoes next to his, and breathe.

Let's get to work, let's get this kid home.