Cutting the cord

As children grow up and move on, an invisible connection remains

This summer, that invisible cord stretched halfway around the world.

By Angela Beairsto

“Every new beginning comes from some other beginning’s end.”

That song verse should have been my mantra for the summer, which marked so many transitions at my house: new jobs, loss of girlfriends, a high school graduation, college-bound sons, and a traveling teenage daughter. As a mother, these beginnings and endings, especially the endings, have always been difficult for me.

It begins even before birth, that undeniable connectedness of a mother and child.  Even before a mother looks upon her child’s face or counts her fingers and toes, she is offering nourishment and love through her umbilical cord, she and her baby peacefully one.

I was physically separated from each of my four children through the ceremonious cutting of their umbilical cords, but we are still connected. I imagine instead four invisible cords—these extending from my heart, one connecting to each child, sometimes so stretched or entangled with one another I’ve felt my heart would break.

It was so much easier when that cord was taut, as I rocked and nursed my babies, thinking all my pain was in the past, with childbirth. Little did I realize that the physical pain that begins with childbirth is a breeze compared to the emotional pain that is simply a part of raising children. I’ve learned that “letting go,” two of the most painful words in a mother’s vocabulary, is inevitable, as all mothers eventually work themselves out of a job.

My daughter is my youngest child and my only girl. So with each celebrated milestone, each “I can do it myself,” she took a few more baby steps away from me and toward a rich and fulfilling life, leaving me with a feeling of loss—not just of my daughter, but of my role as a mother.

With each celebrated milestone, she took a few more baby steps away from me.

Though a joyous occasion, my daughter’s first steps were the first stretch of that invisible cord, and my first painful lesson in learning to let her fall. On her first day of school, it was she who didn’t want to separate, as she quietly stood at my hip, forcing me to physically detach her, painfully stretching that cord even further than before. Letting go of her bicycle seat, as she wobbled unsteadily down the sidewalk, just about put a knot in that cord, but nothing a few band-aids on her knees—and my heart—wouldn’t cure.

The cord remained intact, though a little worse for wear, until my daughter and I hit the teen years. The more she pulled in one direction, the harder I pulled in the other; it was a virtual tug-of-war, and I was petrified of losing. Although I knew I should relax my grip just a bit, sometimes my husband had to pry my fingers loose. Parenting is so relative; it was so much easier to let go of a bicycle than a car! A car meant stretching the cord to destinations unknown and the possibility that a band-aid might not do the job.

This summer, I was forced to stretch that invisible cord halfway around the world, as my daughter traveled to Ghana, to volunteer at an orphanage. When she first proposed the idea of traveling there with a friend, every alarm in my body sounded. Only when the friend’s father decided to join the girls did I give my consent. For nearly a month, my only communication with my daughter was a couple of rushed phone calls (at $3 a minute) and an occasional e-mail.

Parenting is a constant process of letting go, of saying goodbye— and of welcoming home. As I stood in the airport, anxiously awaiting my daughter’s arrival, I wondered how she might have changed, and if I would recognize her. I needn’t have worried, because I instantly recognized that trademark smile of hers just before she ran over to give a big hug—to her boyfriend! Then she turned her attention and open arms to me. “I missed you, Mom,” she said.

The next morning, my daughter awoke, surprisingly early, eager to share her pictures and stories with me. As we sat at her favorite restaurant, where she devoured a salad (“I haven’t eaten anything green in weeks,” she gushed), I couldn’t keep my eyes off her. Although she still looked like that same sweet girl, something had indeed changed. And though she sat only feet away from me across that table, that invisible cord seemed to stretch for miles.

For seventeen years, I have journeyed with this daughter, trying my best to give her the roots and wings she would need as she grew away from me. I couldn’t help feeling a mixture of excitement and joy at her accomplishment, mixed with nostalgia and a sense of loss. I have realized that a parent never stops parenting, but the role changes constantly with each stage of letting go—and that, if we never let go of our children, they will never learn to journey on their own, or to find their way home.

And so, as I welcomed one daughter home and prepared to send my last son off to college, I reflected on beginnings and endings, and on these things I have learned:

Motherhood is not just a stage. Motherhood alters our very being and becomes a part of us, and as our children grow, we nurture and sustain one another through that invisible umbilical cord. And yes, in one sense we do lose our children, as that cord is stretched further and further. But in a deeper sense, they will always be a part of us, and we of them, as they ensure in us a sense of continuity, “a new beginning from some other beginning’s end.”