Moving Abroad Helped Me Reconnect with My Son

My eldest son got a plane to return to the United States this morning and I am gutted. He was here for a two-week vacation, his first time visiting us since we moved to Spain. It was supposed to be a fun-filled reunion, which it was, but his departure today has left me weeping and filled with despair.

The Backstory to My Sorrow

In order to understand my devastation, you have to know that there’s a backstory to my sorrow. Please allow me to indulge you with said backstory that goes all the way back to the beginning.

My son’s birth was the fulfillment of a dream I’ve had since I was about eight years old, and that was to be a mother. When he was born, I loved him at first sight with the greediness only a new mom knows. I loved his nose, his toes and his perfectly curly hair. And there was nothing I wouldn’t do for my baby. I quit my full-time job so I could be a mostly full-time mom, and I took this child with me everywhere. Restaurants, weddings, all the places most people didn’t want babies to be, but I took him anyway. When he was just barely two, I was assigned my first international magazine story and I had to fly to Spain. Rather than leave him home with his father, I took my son with me. He was my ride or die and he was the best travel companion ever. For the rest of his childhood, my son was the epitome of an easy kid. For the most part. Of course, he wasn’t perfect or without faults, but he was a sweet child and he gave me very little trouble. (Trouble was reserved for son#2)

The Teen Years

And then it all blew up in my face. When my son turned 16, things happened. I’m not going to share personal details of this time, but I’ve written about it and talked about it in closed spaces. Like many parents raising teens in the 21st century, I felt like we went through a non-stop hurricane of drama with him. I remember tears – his and mine – fights, and doors slammed so hard hinges were broken. Therapy, changing schools, dropping out of college. It was crazy. By the time we left for Spain and my son decided he didn’t want to come with us, honestly, I was relieved. He had a good job, a nice apartment and a handful of good friends, and some extended family to keep watch over him. I was so exhausted by the emotional gymnastics required to maintain a relationship with the kid, I needed the break. But more importantly, I needed to see who he would become on his own. I wondered if the first 16 years of his life were still a part of this new young adult human masquerading as my child.

Reunited

I admit, when my son said he was ready to come visit us in Spain, I was nervous. Would I be forced to walk on eggshells again? Would there be tension between us? Would it be awkward to reincorporate him into our family unit, since we’ve created a new life in Spain as a family of four? But I was also cautiously optimistic. I hoped our time apart had given both of us time to recalibrate and reconsider what our relationship could look like going forward. But I was wary. Four years of drama are hard to forget. But, the moment my son walked off that plane and into my arms, I cried tears of joy. My whole heart was back together again.

Reacquainted

I’m not going to lie and paint a pretty picture filled with unicorns and glitter. These two weeks were not an easy walk in the park. Although we did do a lot of walking together. We did a lot of walking and talking. We talked about the past four years. We unpacked what we went through and why. And I did something I’m not very good at, I kept my mouth shut and did a lot of listening. What I learned was that being on his own forced my son to do a lot of reflecting and growing up on his own terms. And while there’s still a lot of healing and maturing that needs to be done, I mean the kid is only 20, I’m totally convinced that my child is on his way to finding his authentic self and letting go of his demons.

It’s So Hard to Say Goodbye

Yesterday, the kid and I spent the whole day together sightseeing and shopping. We had so much fun. It was exactly the fantasy I used to have of what it was going to be like to have “grown” kids who would obviously want to hang out with their cool mom. The tension between us was gone and we could just chill and have a good time. We were totally able to reconnect on a level we haven’t since the “before time.” And then he had to pack his suitcase and leave this morning. I’m not exaggerating when I say that my tears started last night. I fell asleep with images of creating a dramatic scene at the airport begging him not to go. Needless to say, I opted to say goodbye at the apartment and let el esposo drive the kid to the airport, because I didn’t trust myself not to act a fool.

The Body Remembers the Score

So, we said goodbye this morning, shed our tears, and then I took babygirl to school and cried all the way home. I tried to get a grip on my overwhelming emotions and wondered if I was so distraught for reasons other than just a mother missing her child. The fact that the spiking COVID numbers makes future travel uncertain is definitely a factor. Knowing that Christmas is around the corner and the kid won’t be with us for the first time ever doesn’t help either.

And because as I was walking home, I was literally looking at the ocean that my son’s airplane would soon be crossing, I couldn’t help but reflect on the fact that for centuries, Black mothers watched their children, particularly their sons, be ripped away from them and shipped across bodies of water, never to be seen again. Of course, my son willingly boarding an airplane to return to his life in Philadelphia offers nowhere near the scope of devastation as a woman losing her child to enslavement. But I couldn’t help but wonder what it would mean for my son to choose to stay in Spain with his family and forsake his return to the United States?

Isn’t there something radical about choosing to stay with your family rather than perpetuate the very American expectation that children are supposed to “flee the nest” and strike out on their own by the age of 18 or 21?

For Black people especially, I think choosing to be close to your family is an act of self-preservation that should be dutifully considered. (Says the girl who left her entire family to move to Spain…I’ll work that out in a future post.)

Moving Abroad Helped Me Reconnect with My Son

Suffice it to say, I’m just sad. I’m sad that I’ve gotten to see a glimpse of the boy I gave birth to on the cusp of manhood, and now he’s gone again. I’m sad that we’re living through a global pandemic so quick visits across the pond aren’t so easy. I’m sad because I have to watch my other two children grapple with their own feelings of loss now that their big brother is gone again. I’m sad because el esposo is equally gutted but he’s not a crier, yet this morning I had to hold him while he cried. Damn it, why do I love my kids so much?

Wait a second. I’m sad because I love my kid so much? That seems a little silly. But the truth is, despite the last four difficult years, I still love my child that much. I wanted him since he was just an idea and I’ve loved him ever since. And now that we’ve had our time apart, we’ve both been able to lick our wounds and redefine our relationship. But that’s nothing to cry about, that kind of lasting love is a gift. So, what I should be doing is celebrating the blessings that have been bestowed upon me, while honoring the fact that I’m allowed to be sad. More importantly though, what I really should be doing instead of writing this blog post, is figuring out a way to get my boy back to Spain as soon as possible.

Wish me luck!