Brandi Carlile broke the dam.

I truly thought I was doing a respectable job of holding my shit together as my baby’s senior year has passed the halfway point. The very last of the first day of school pictures, the last homecoming dance, the milestones passing without my consent, but I barely cried at his final Christmas concert. Which seemed notable to me.

His graduation date and college move-in date are on the horizon and I find myself just wanting to be in the same spaces with him, running errands or cooking dinner together.  I don’t care much about what we do, we don’t even have to talk. I work hard to keep my “brave face” on the outside, but on the inside, I’m screaming like a toddler digging her heels into the ground because she doesn’t want to move forward.  I have months and miles to go, but it’s not enough. Time is precious and time is a thief. Time is a giver and a taker at the same time, and it doesn’t care whether you rage against it or embrace it or even try to ignore it.

“I’m living in a war with time, I could still reach out and touch you

And I wish I didn’t know the things I know

I’m standing in an open door, none of it was overrated

And I’m never gonna wanna let you go, but I want you to go

Don’t even ask me just go…”   (B. Carlile “War with Time”)

Having been through this twice before, I know how much it’s going to hurt to say goodbye to my kid. I don’t want to constantly be cataloguing all the “lasts” in my head, because sometimes the anticipation can be just as intense as the events themselves.  But if I don’t, I feel like I’m not being present enough, not taking enough notice of something special and amazing happening. I need to be painfully aware.

I wish I didn’t know how much it’s going to hurt. I wish that door could stay closed for a little while longer and at the same time I know I want him to go. Because that’s what moms do.  Because that’s what he wants, that’s what he needs to do. And I will wage this silent war against time that I can never win. Hopefully I won’t take down too many people with me.

How lucky am I though? I get to be at a Brandi Carlile concert with my friends, my kids, and their friends. We get to share this experience of music and storytelling for hours and hours and I can barely stop smiling for all the joy in my body. 

It’s only when Brandi starts sharing stories about being a mom, and watching her kids growing up, that I realize I should have maybe worn that waterproof mascara. She tells a story about the first time she got on a plane by herself, and she realizes that her kids will be doing that one day- taking a trip by themselves, experiencing things on their own without her. It can be a hard thing to reconcile that this person you’ve spent most of your waking hours with, caring for and worrying about and loving with this acute pain like your heart is outside of your body- this person will move on without you. They will experience life without you, will experience people and events and feelings that you will have no idea about.

“But I would know you anywhere, I lost myself in you

Heavy are the hands that you are free to slip right through

Do what you have to do…there you are, it’s just you, without me…

… I’m ever just a thought away, if ever you need me

You’re gonna live a lot of life, you’re gonna see a lot of years

God willing, just you without me

There you are, just you without me…”  (B. Carlile, “You Without Me”)

This song begins and I’m already in a somewhat fragile state. And then I’m aware of my boy, my baby boy who just turned 18 two days ago, standing next to me. I put my arm around him, and I lean into him and he lets me. Not only does he let me, but he puts his arm around me too and leans into me and it’s the most special and perfect moment ever. I cannot stop the tears spilling over onto my cheeks and I do not try. I am afraid of breathing too hard or moving too much, afraid of wrecking the moment.  The song goes on, and I’m crying harder and I just hug him, my beautiful giant adult child. We stay like that for the whole song, which seems simultaneously like time has stopped and yet is over in an instant. I am painfully aware and beautifully present.  And then she goes right into another excruciating, heartrending song “The Mother”, a one-two emotional gut-punch that almost leaves me breathless.

“Welcome to the end of being alone inside your mind

You’re tethered to another and you’re worried all the time

You always knew the melody but you never heard it rhyme…

The first things that she took from me were selfishness and sleep

She broke a thousand heirlooms that I was never meant to keep

She filled my life with color, cancelled plans and trashed my car

But none of that was ever who we are…”  (B. Carlile, “The Mother”)

What I want to say to my extraordinary boy is straight out of her lyrics: you’re nothing short of magical and beautiful to me.  Every day of my life that I have been privileged enough to be your mom. But I don’t say anything because I don’t trust my voice to form the words. I say nothing, but I hope he knows it.  I just hug him and everything else falls away, the world, the obligations and worries awaiting my attention. There’s only the two of us and this music tying us to each other.  Even if we never talk about it. It’s a moment that is branded onto my soul, and I knew it as it was happening, that even as I rage against the passing of time, this memory, this perfect moment, will be with me every minute of every day for the rest of my life. How lucky am I?

I’ve cried more than I care to admit while alone in my car this week. I’m crying even as I finish writing this. I’m done for. The dam is broken.

Thanks, Brandi.

(PS If I haven’t turned any readers into Brandi Carlile fans, or at least led you to give her music a listen, then I might* be doing something wrong…)