Uncontained

Refusing the container and embracing the mess

I cruised east on the highway towards the airport, chatting cheerfully to distract my son. He was tight-lipped and quiet.

“How are you feeling?” I asked.

“Anxious,” Leo replied.

“That makes sense,” I responded, “Tell me why.”

He let out a sigh. “More independence. It’s the thing I’m most excited about and the thing I’m most nervous about.”

Leo was en route to a big adventure. Each year, his middle school sends its graduating eighth graders on a trip to England, honoring their heritage as a British primary school, and celebrating the culmination of their primary school experience. Nine brave teachers chaperone fifty eager fourteen-year-olds through London and beyond for an action-packed, week-long itinerary with no parents, no cell phones, and no homework awaiting their mutual return for the last week of school.

“I can understand why you’re feeling nervous,” I said as we pulled into the parking lot.

I helped him hoist his bag out of the car. “And you are ready for this! You’ve gone on shorter school trips without your parents. You’ve gone on international trips with us. This is just a little bit bigger, and with more responsibility.”

He nodded.

“I am so excited for you! This is going to be the trip of a lifetime. If there’s any small piece of advice I can offer, it’s this: take it all in. Try your best to be in the moment and to savor it.”

He looked into my eyes. “I’ll try.”

We strode to check-in, queuing up beside teachers and students buzzing with excitement. The Head of School attempted to strike up a conversation. Leo offered single-word replies, his eyes darting towards the ground and towards me.

We checked in. Leo found his friends and began to settle in, relaxing into a smile. I took a few pictures. I chatted with a few moms.

I said goodbye. “Have an awesome time!”

The Parking Lot

Alone, I walked out of the temperate airport, back to the hot asphalt parking lot, a catch in my throat. Buckling in, I turned the music up, ready to move on.

I paused. Maybe I ought to take my own advice. I turned off the sound.

I burst into tears. I cried the whole way home.

The tears rolling down my face were a sweet and salty mixture—of joy, pride, sadness, love, letting go, all at once. A complex brew of emotions, aged slowly and gently over fourteen years of motherhood. The bright notes of happiness, reveling in my son’s adventures. The undertones of mourning, sensing a chapter of parenthood beginning to close. The bold notes of pride, watching Leo step bravely into bigger experiences, even when feeling uncertain. The crushing depth of my love, my heart expanding beyond my body, beating not just within myself, but within my son.

The weight, the beauty, the power of it all feels like more than I can handle.

And yet, I do.

My parenting is beginning to shift its shape from nurturing and safeguarding a child, through shepherding and growing a young boy, towards celebrating and witnessing a young man. Young parents often hear older parents say, “The days are long, but the years fly by.” Trite as it seems, the adage is true. The evolution is slow, until it isn’t.

Moments like the airport drop-off arise now and then, offering a poignant reminder. Slowly but surely, I’m releasing my hands cupped around this person that I’ve known and nurtured since before he knew himself. The most important and rewarding effort of my life is changing before my eyes. That change, while exactly as it’s meant to be, is bittersweet. A love and force so vast, so all-consuming, and yet one that requires letting go.

Leo’s own complex mixture of emotions is mirrored in me. He felt anxious and excited for the exact same reason—for the thrill and the worry of independence. In my own way, I was, too. Joyful and bereft over the exact same thing—he is growing up. My heart, living outside my body, navigating on its own.

The Dance Floor

Still carrying the weight of the afternoon, I headed out to meet a friend. LeVon had surprised me with two tickets. “I want to gift you something, but I don’t want to tell you what it is. You just have to say yes.” I did.

Two tickets to “Moms Feelin’ Themselves”.

When I discovered the plan, I gulped down a tinge of dread. Be open to it, Kat.

My friend, Gina, and I met for dinner beforehand. She’d been to this event before. Her eyes met mine across the table. “I’ll be really curious to see what you think of this,” she mused.

We walked up to the entrance. Moms queued up outside, donning their favorite club attire. In broad daylight. At 7:45 pm.

We advanced to the door. Promotional messaging greeted us from the event’s sponsor: Pelvicore Therapeutics.

Let’s Rage.

We stepped inside. The merch booth was already sold out. I had missed my shot at a baseball cap inscribed with “Motherhood is a real job.”

Words of inspiration.

Snaking around the bar, a long line of women waited to pose against a photo booth backdrop bursting with pink plastic flowers.

We grabbed our drinks and headed to the dance floor. First up: Whitney Houston, “I Wanna Dance With Somebody”. Next up: Annie Lennox, “Sweet Dreams”. Next up: Beyoncé, “Girls”. The mom anthem playlist rang on.

I shot Gina a glance. “I can’t handle this.” She nodded.

We were gone in less than thirty minutes.

The Mess

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not here to judge the many women who were clearly loving this. For mothers of young children, in the thick of sustaining human life, with little to no room for anything else, this event probably felt like a safe haven and a release. But for me, and for my stage of parenthood, the whole thing highlighted how small and tidy the spaces for women and mothers are often constructed. We’re given room to celebrate within the singular identity of motherhood. We’re given rallying cries like “Motherhood is a real job.” We’re given a space to connect solely on the commonality of being mothers. I’ve never seen a “Dads Feelin’ Themselves” event. No one hands them a baseball cap and pumps Dad Jams to reinforce their identity. Dads just go do their thing. Partially because they’re encouraged to do so with greater frequency than most mothers. Partially because we don’t hinge their whole identities on fatherhood. Motherhood alone is not enough of a shared identity to forge bonds between women. It’s one note in a complex blend of flavors, experiences, emotions, and perspectives.

Moms Feelin’ Themselves. Followed by… Grandaddy.

Gina and I walked into the cool night air with a sigh of relief and a hearty laugh. She offered to drive me home. As we wound through the city streets of Denver, we talked about our lives: my tears in the parking lot; her family’s summer plans; our careers; our experience of midlife – of wisdom mixed with metamorphosis. The vast, rich, tangled fabric of our identities, with threads of interconnection and sprawling roads to destinations unknown.

There is space for all of it at once.

The free-flowing tears and the cringe. Pride in my work as a mother and insistence on a title beyond “mom”. A love so consuming I’d die for it and a fierce refusal to be solely defined by it.

The polarities belong beside each other. And when we’re brave enough to embrace the grand mess of it all, the fullness of life reveals itself. My heart cracks open wider. And I rediscover its boundlessness.