I just dropped Beau off for his first day of first grade. There is an erie stillness permeating throughout the house. There are no lego pieces scattered across the living room rug, the couch cushions remain prominently placed in a row and there are no minecraft sound effects bellowing from the tv. There isn’t a half eaten yogurt abandoned on the counter or a stool precariously positioned in front of the fridge to aid in retrieving the gallon of milk. I have craved a moment of peace like this all summer.

I have contended with unwarranted nerf gun bullets and WWE wrestling matches on my coffee table. The play room has expanded well beyond the boundaries of its four walls and the amount of times I have had to shut off all of the lights in our home has me seriously considering those ugly solar panels.

I have been tethered to the air fryer and can make chicken nuggets with my eyes closed. Closing my eyes has been my only means of privacy as solo bathroom trips are prohibited and what better time to ask mom to wipe your own butt? Freezer pops have been deemed currency and grocery shopping trip melt downs have been evaded by the thin line of a nerd rope.

I have yelled ridiculous requests like to please get your toothbrush away from the dog’s butthole and do not use my decorative hand towels as toilet paper. I have persistently wiped pee off of toilet seats and scrapped dry play dough out of the crevices of our floor boards. There are days I could feel my sanity succumbing to the chaos residing in this house.

But as I sit in here in the quiet and calm, I find myself suffocated by the silence. I can hear the soft echo of dinosaur roars coming from the playroom, but I know it’s just my imagination. There is a dribble of chocolate milk on the counter, reminding me of my son’s presence and consequently also his absence. There are action figures positioned ready for war, but suspended in time. A row of matchbox box cars borders the outline of our living room rug with the promise of continued play. I keep anticipating the nudge of a little voice requesting strawberries or chicken nuggets with ketchup. I instinctively peek in his room to check on him and reality delicately reminds me that he is not here.

His absence is as prominent as his presence. His absence reminds me that he is growing up. Everyday, I feel as though my purpose as a mother is being compromised as he becomes less dependent of me. This is the hardest part about motherhood. It’s not the messes and the meltdowns. It’s not the crazy and chaos. It’s the absence. It’s the reality that our job as a parent is to raise our children to be independent of us.

It’s the difficulty of falling in love with a version of your child that you’ll only know for a short time. It’s the fleeting moments and tender memories. It’s the fistfuls of dandelions that won’t always sit proudly on your kitchen counter. It’s the crooked “ I love you’s” and stick figure family portraits hung on the fridge. It’s the innocence and purity that only exists in childhood. It’s feeling your identity get turned inside out as your purpose as a mother constantly evolves and changes.

It’s why I will remind myself to let him jump on the couch cushions. I’ll forgive the invasion of dinosaurs taking over my dining room table and the monster truck on the stairs that I stub my toe on every morning. I’ll embrace the crazy and the chaos that is my son’s childhood because it’s temporary, all of it.