It had to happen. It was not only written in the sky, but also in the fine print in the parenthood credits of human history. It is not nothing in itself. But no, poor idiot, you bought time with banana cakes and homemade jams, lulling you into the illusion that a love like yours didn’t exist.
RIP. Conception, January 5, 2003 – Flight, 1er February 2022.
My B, once my little Babe, my big Hugo, jumped out of the nest. He flies, he flies. Without a parachute, without parents, without booze, he flies. The Nocturnes of Chopin were silent on my grief. I sheltered the piano in his room with a black sheet. We mourn, mute.
Even though I left my family at 17, the shock of seeing it fly away at 18 caused a broken heart syndrome (it exists for real), combined with an empty nest syndrome. About 35% of mothers have it, I read. And the remaining 65%, what do they do? They dance the java? It seems that life goes on.
I pity the cows whose calves are taken away to make cheese. My apologies to all the Reblochons, but you have tears on your conscience. And I should stock up on mine, at the price at which artificial ones are sold at the pharmacy. I cry like a calf, like a cow, I don’t know anymore, but for dry eyes, it’s indicated.
My dear parents, I’m leaving
I love you, but I’m leaving
You won’t have any more children
This evening
When he announced his departure to me on the telephone, at the beginning of January, I paid for my first solo binge in memory of mother. A grieving, drunk and pathetic mother on shifting ground. I wanted to die. I survived all THAT for THAT? The film of my last 20 years flashed before my eyes misted with tears. A huge puddle, a dizzying void sucked me in. I felt less independent than him. I have lost the instructions for the me-me-me. Who is this me? I no longer know who to surpass myself for.
I am an eggless mother hen. The kind of mother who gets up at 7 a.m. on Sunday to drive you to work, who has planned your granola bar and your crunchy salad and who worries about your wart. Too invested to rely on it like that.
Our grandmothers were right, children, it’s ungrateful mam’chose.
– Mom, I’ll be correct, I know how to make polenta!
If life were as easy as a polenta recipe, it would be known, my little guy… watch out for lumps.
baby blues
I had an antepartum depression that lasted six long months, pregnant. It’s normal for me to go postpartum 19 years later. It balances things. He doesn’t leave me for a young child (I’ve already played in this C-movie); he won’t leave me to study abroad; no, he’s leaving me to go kick the ass on his own. And even though I know I have to, that it’s the best thing for him, I listen Father and Son and Wild World and I sing along with Cat Stevens, ” And it’s breaking my heart you’re leaving, Baby I’m greavin’ “. I listened again during a whole evening to the songs that rocked my 18 years. I looped Simon and Garfunkel, The Boxer and I Am a Rock“ And a rock feels no pain, and an island never cries “.
And I bawled like the Magdalen Islands after leaving him on the sidewalk in front of his house, a keyboard under his arm, his cameras slung over his shoulder, an excited smile on his lips, a mixture of pride and apprehension. I didn’t come up for pizza and beer with the roommates; I was persona non grata on the threshold of freedom.
“ Hope you make a lot of nice friends out there. But just remember there is a lot of bad and beware. Beware…”
He moved to the same neighborhood where my grandfather Alban landed when he was 19, the hood Gaspesians, near the Jacques-Cartier bridge.
– It is the end…
– But no, mom! It’s the beginning ! You will be able to take care of yourself.
It’s the last thing I want, though. If I count all the weeks lost in joint custody, I am amputated by more than eight years of intimacy, eight springs, eight summers of sticking little fingers, a complete childhood. I miss the ocean of his eyes, these silences so full between us. From now on, we will have to furnish them.
My child, my little one
Good road… Good road
You take the train for life
And your heart will change country
It will pass. Or not…
They have tried so hard to reason with me for a month; I should consider myself lucky not to host a Tanguy, and besides, what’s the use of crying since it’s “normal”. How ungrateful I am not to simply rejoice in this wonderful adventure against the backdrop of a pandemic, sedition, unprecedented inflation at the grocery store, exorbitant rents and ecological sinking.
I always thought that the children crossed us and that we were smugglers. My son never belonged to me and is neither my extension nor my replica. But I hadn’t suspected how much we gave them the very essence of our being. There is no happy love.
My pain disturbs because it speaks of an unconditional, immortal love, much larger than the two of us. The times do not encourage such emotions of emotional dependence. I called my dear Sophie Faucher; she went through it two years ago with her Clémentine, who left at 24. Actresses have the right to be too emotional, it’s their job.
“I haven’t really gotten over it,” Sophie told me. Last night, Michel cried while washing the Tupperware in which Clémentine had brought us soup. Fathers also suffer from this syndrome. “It’s not just her who is leaving, it’s all her youth, her joyful presence, all of Life. Even worries are life. Now we talk on the phone, I hang up and I miss her. Look Star Academy without her, it’s not the same…”
Oh, I know, we get used to everything. I put away his first stuffed animal, his kindergarten drawings, his beenie white offered by Sainte-Justine, even the pregnancy test, photos and the first paper exchanges with her father. I put everything in a bass drum. Above, it is written “Hugo 0-18 years old”. One day he will understand.
In the meantime, no one will whisper to me: “Mama, you’re the best” as a thank you.
You’re welcome, my B. It was an honor to hold your hand.
Good road, good road.
Instagram: josee.blanchette