Literary Mama writing about the many faces of motherhood
The Pause Button


"One more," Ethan says and points the remote at the television so that another episode of New Girl, our fourth this afternoon, begins. I like the show just fine; though, in truth, there's an essay I'm itching to work on, and more than a few house chores I should have finished by now. Still, I sit here because this is what my son wants to do on this rainy Sunday afternoon and my biggest pull is to be with him.

Just the week before, Ethan and I toured Fordham University, he was hired for his first real job as a waiter at a local pancake house, and he attained his driver's permit.

College. Earning power. The ability to drive away.

It all points to one fact. He's leaving me. He always has been. But before now it seemed to be happening slowly and in increments. When did we move onto this accelerated track?

"I've got so much to think about," Ethan complained to me earlier, voice quavering in a way it rarely does anymore. College essay. SAT scores. The new job. Driving practice with his less-than-patient dad. Of course he feels overwhelmed.

"One thing at a time," I told him as though there was any other choice in managing these demands, as though that clichéd reminder could somehow quell the surge of panic he felt.

Glaring at me, he'd turned on the television which, I soon realized, was his version of pressing a pause button.

Perfect, I thought, super-gluing myself to the spot.

For my part, what I'd like to pause right now is time itself. I'm suffering from what I can only think to call early onset nostalgia. Already I miss this boy slouched beside me on the couch. Actually I miss dozens of versions of Ethan. The infant who gazed up at me as he nursed in a contented milky stupor. The chubby-legged babe who slapped the floor loudly with his palms as he crawled. The three-year-old who was so proud of his Thomas the Tank Engine underwear he dropped his pants in the middle of a toy store to show his friend. The list goes on and on. The kindergartener who scampered under a desk the first time he entered his new classroom. The six-year-old who bounded ahead of me with his backpack swinging. The seven-year-old who insisted on calling the doctor himself when he felt ill. Ah, and the eight-year-old who stared at me, wide-eyed and incredulous, when his name was drawn at a school raffle. The prize? Dinner for two at Wolfgang Puck's. "Can you believe it, Mom? I won!"

One afternoon, just after Ethan turned nine, I had lunch with a friend who has two grown children.

"Do you realize he's now lived with you for half as long as he's likely to?" she asked me.

For one brief innocent moment I had no idea what she meant. Then I did the simple equation. Nine plus nine equals eighteen. Eighteen equals college, equals dorm life, equals goodbye.

It's half over, I thought, gazing out the restaurant window because eye contact in that moment would have felt like a finger on a bruise. Life cohabitating with my child was half over and I hadn't been present enough. I hadn't been paying enough attention.

Nostalgia has always been like that for me, more bitter than sweet. I can't help but think of time that's passed as time I've squandered away.

Once, when I was six and had lost a tooth, and again when I was twelve and got my period for the first time, I cried inconsolably through an entire evening.

"It's normal," my mom said to assure me both times. "It means you're healthy and growing."

I understood that. What made me weep at those milestones was that I also understood how life can only go in one direction.

And I was a dreamer. I lived in my head. If I wasn't careful, I'd miss it all.

Now that Ethan and I have all of one year together before he leaves for college, I'm grief-stricken once again over the brevity of this one-way trip. I'm also angry at myself for the many times my mind took me somewhere else. The times my boy chatted with me and my attention went to an argument his dad and I were in the midst of. Or to an email I owed an editor. Or to the buzz of the dryer where our clothes were beginning to wrinkle in their cramped heap.

There were also the mornings I felt relieved when he left for school, the evenings I longed for him to fall asleep. I loved his company but I craved those hours to myself. Hours I often spent writing, ironically enough, about him in an attempt to capture something of this fleeting life we share, in an attempt to slow it down.

This is what's hardest for me to reconcile. Those of us who create our art out of the stuff of our lives have to step outside those very lives to do so. For me it’s the optimal pause button. I need that time to reflect and digest. The problem is that life goes on without us while we take those pauses. And as much as I yearn for pockets of solitude, I also hate to miss out on one prized moment with my nearly grown son.

Meanwhile the credits roll on New Girl.

Ethan tells me, "I should go to the gym."

"Yeah," I say, stretching and yawning. "I've got a bunch of 'shoulds' to get to myself."

He picks up the remote and turns it around and around in his palm.

Other than that, neither of us moves.

Ona Gritz is the author of two children’s books, two collections of poetry, and a memoir. Her essays have appeared in numerous anthologies and journals including The Utne Reader, MORE magazine, the Bellingham Review, and, most recently, The Truth of Memoir: How to Write about Yourself and Others with Honesty, Emotion, and Integrity by Kerry Cohen. Ona lives in Lansdowne, Pennsylvania. Her son Ethan is a college freshman.

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I love this. My oldest is at that half-way point and I'm already telling myself constantly to pause and appreciate the actual time we have.
When my sixth-grade son beamed and put his arm around me for a school photograph, I knew such wonderfully simple adulation could not last, but I had years before I would have to endure its attenuation. My boys are young adults, and I see them frequently, yet every moment still feels as though sand is running through my fingers and no grip can slow its course.
This made me teary, Ona. I am going through the same predicament with Cami, trying to keep the present alive. I remember Ethan and Cami running so very "hard" to get to the end of the sidewalk when they were little. They were so excited and curious. I remember wonderful moments caroling in the strollers one cold winter evening, and having breakfast in the park in the spring, the Halloween Parades, and pumpkin carving parties, but mostly, how they loved to run.
I feel this nostalgia, too, even though my daughter is not yet 3! I already miss the younger selves she's shed. I really enjoyed reading this essay. Thanks.
Thank you all for your touching and thoughtful comments. This opportunity to share the nostalgia with other parents, at all stages, helps alleviate the sting.
Early onset nostalgia is a good phrase; it makes me laugh at my own. Reading this just after Elizabeth Fishel's "When Will My Grown-Up Kid Grow Up?" about parenting young adult children was interesting. It's quite likely that this won't be the last year your son lives with you!
Beautiful! You express the tension of being in life and stepping away for art or internal growth - a tension also for non-moms.
Oh Ona, I love this. Stella is at that half-way point and I've been thinking about it for months, wanting to hold her tight and keep her close even as I love to watch her grow into the young woman she is becoming. So thank you for your beautiful words!
I'm so touched to hear the ways in which this piece moved each of you. Thank you for letting me know!
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