W

ell, it’s official. There’s something wrong with me.

I was normal once. I remember those days fondly. The births of my first several children brought me unmitigated joy.

My oldest was born before I’d been married two years, but I did not take his arrival for granted. Earlier medical issues had augured a long and bumpy quest for motherhood. So I treasured this bundle with every ounce of my being. With his thick dark curls and huge eyes, not to mention his learning to smile responsively before he was a month old, I thought him the most brilliant, beautiful child who ever lived.

As his siblings arrived in quick succession, my pride and joy only grew. Each baby brought a surge of the fabled primal love a mother is supposed to feel. A lone stay-at-home mom in a sea of working women, I was inordinately proud of my growing brood — and my dedication to being their full-time caretaker.

And truly, they were unusual. When other mothers kvetched of sibling rivalry or homework struggles or bedtime battles I clucked appropriately, but silently, I was smug. My children never fought. They never needed help or prodding with their homework. They practically put themselves to bed. Clearly they were superior. And by extension, so was I.

Two decades passed slowly in a blur of diapers and feedings and laundry and cooking and shopping and messes and life. And suddenly, I wasn’t just the mother of a few young children anymore. My older children had grown up; the younger ones were proving needier. Now I found myself spending hours daily on homework and baths and bedtime. On top of that, I had a difficult, colicky baby.

And then, it happened. My oldest was flying off to the Mir. All around me at the airport mothers dabbed at moist eyes and blew leaky noses. In a pack, they threw out clichés in solidarity. “Good thing I wore sunglasses.” “Time flies by so fast!” “It seems like just yesterday we cut his hair!” They leaned on each other for support. But I needed none, had none to give.

My heart flooded with guilt. Time, I thought, did not fly by so fast. He is 20 and, doggone it, it took me 20 long years to get here. I had worked hard at my task, and, I thought, done a pretty good job of it. I was — gasp! — ready to move on.

Was it the fact that I’d spent more tangible hours with my children than most mothers that made me so oddly prepared to let go? I wondered. And — what blasphemy was this? — I actually felt more relieved than grieved.

Things had become less than perfect with this child. He’d recently become flippant and taken to coming late to minyan and yeshivah. I had tried not to let it affect me, to give him the love he needed. But I’d lived with the constant fear of falling short. Now that pressure would be off for a while.

“Boy, you’re gonna miss him,” people commented. Well, yeah. I guess so. But a year isn’t all that long. I have others at home. I’m good, thanks.

And it’s more than that. I have ten children, bli ayin hara, and you know what? I’m overwhelmed. There. I’ve said it. Happy?

Cooking and cleaning and doing homework with and bathing and bedtiming ten children is hard. I don’t mind doing all that for one less for a while.

The year did indeed fly. And then, before I could turn around twice, his sister graduated high school. And got engaged. And married. And moved halfway around the world to Beit Shemesh. (“That must be so hard for you….” Please. Please just stop!) And seemingly before I could blink, she became a mother herself.

Dutifully, I left my still young and needy brood to tend to the kimpeturin for two weeks. And of course, to meet my first grandchild.

When I arrived home, the comments came in an unwanted torrent once again. “It must be so hard on you that they’re there.” No. No, actually, I’m okay. “You must miss your grandson SO much!” No. No, I’m good. I have my hands plenty full just taking care of my own children. “Thank goodness for Facetime, right?” Actually, I don’t have Facetime. I speak to them only about twice a week, unless there’s some important information one of us has to impart. You do realize that hundreds of generations survived on far less contact, right?

So, it’s confirmed. I am a failure. I’m not a real mother. A real mother feels perpetual pain when separated from her progeny. All those years of truly being there for my children. All those hours spent baking and playing and reading with them, knowing them deeply for who they are, encouraging, molding, guiding — not to mention feeding, bathing, and clothing — gone in a puff of guilt.

Sure, I’ve learned to smile and answer those never-ending questions with socially accepted platitudes. Inwardly, I try to ignore the queries.

But with each new magazine piece expounding on “existential-angst-of-growing-child-pulling-away,” and “how-did-he-grow-up-so-fast,” and “I-must-learn-to-let-go,” I wonder anew:

What is wrong with me?

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 585)