Christiane Northrup revealed a key piece of intelligence on her PBS special last night. The mother, it turns out (in this case, that would be me) carries left-over fetal cells from her children in her own body for 27 years! (Not sure what left-over fetal cells means, my what would have been my daughter's third eye?) Never mind. This notion works here best as biological metaphor. That our kids are really, truly in our very bones much longer than you'd think. They've left the house, graduated from school, found significant others--and they're 21, 24, 26 and you (the mom) feel every breath as if they were still in your, ahem, tummy. They rant and rail, not understanding why you're clinging so tight, overly involved, living every drama as if it were your own. And now, Christiane enlightens us: that it's their own cells crying out in empathy. You see, Grant and Jody, I'm innocent, innocent I tell you! And Grant, turning 27 in January, the light is at the end of the tunnel. What I could once never imagine, that I could live a day of my life thinking about myself and others--and not about my first-born flesh of my flesh--is upon us. I felt it anyway, with all your accomplishments and independence, your maturing love for others, the separation that you and I both thought was supposed to take place at 13 or 21, at the latest, is finally upon us. And the last remaining cell or two of you that have not yet quite been sloughed off, have just enough oomph left in them to shed, yes, a tear. The only question remains: is it a tear of sadness or of joy? My guess is: both.
Carol Orsborn