You hatched butterflies in preschool this spring. When I picked you up one sunny day in May, you were delighted to report that several of the butterflies had hatched.
“But where did the caterpillars go?” you asked.
We were so focused on the arrival of the butterflies that I guess we failed to prepare you for this seemingly obvious reality: The presence of the butterflies means the disappearance of the caterpillars.
As I tried to talk you through this, my words caught unexpectedly in my throat.
How can I blame you for wishing to keep both? My journey in motherhood thus far has been a lesson-on-repeat that I can’t hang on to two stages at once. Not only that, but I can neither speed up nor slow down this process of metamorphosis.
Hooray! You learned to walk! But I miss kissing your head now that you no longer ride, kangaroo-style, in your Baby Bjorn.
Hooray! You can go to sleep on your own! But I miss those hushed moments, rocking you in that hand-me-down glider chair.
Hooray! You learned how to make that tricky letter sound! But you no longer call your brother by that beloved lispy nickname.
As Augustine said, “Every change is a kind of death.”
As I watched you onstage at your preschool concert, doing the motions to the song with earnest concentration, I sense delight and wistfulness doing a tug-of-war in my heart. Each stage represents a new accomplishment, a new adventure, a new milestone. And I wouldn’t trade any of them in.
But let me tell you a secret, my preschool buddy: I love the butterflies. Still . . . I miss the caterpillars sometimes too.
Stephanie, this is just beautiful. You captured so much in so few words. Every beginning, of course, is preceded by an ending. Now that I’m turning 72 I am so acutely aware of those not only in my children’s but also in my grandchildren‘s lives. I hope one day you will compile all these stories in a book.