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<h5 style="padding-left: 360px;">Photo by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/people/mikee032901/">MikeOcampo</a><a href="http://www.flickr.com/people/blmurch/"></a></h5>
Yesterday afternoon, my girls came home after spending four days at their dad's house. They ran up the sidewalk onto the porch, flinging their arms around my waist, burdened with their bags and backpacks and a wriggling puppy beside herself over the return of "her girls."

<strong>Our mini reunions are always joyful, but they can be slightly anxious for me, too. </strong>For some reason, when the girls are with their dad, I don't worry or even wonder much what they're up to. I certainly think about them, a hundred little times throughout the day, but I don't get bogged down by details—or I guess it would be the <em>lack</em> of details. A big part of it is that I trust their dad, for the most part. <strong>And maybe I don't worry about every detail because I've learned I simply <em>can't</em>. The details aren't readily available, and fretting over them doesn't do any good.</strong>

<strong>But that instant when I first see them again after being apart? That's when I suddenly realize how much life they've been living without me.</strong> I have to swallow that part of my heart that's working its way into my throat, take a deep breath, and focus on the fact that they're <em>here.</em> Their excited chatter, busy movements, and perfect smooth softness are right with me, sharing my space. What they've been doing since I last saw them isn't really what matters—at least not the most.
<h4>Gripped by a hundred maternal emotions</h4>
I still wonder, though. I can't help it. Yesterday, H and S went out to the porch to play, but Q sat with me while I folded laundry, petting Maeve and telling me about her weekend.

"I went to Chicago with Papa," she said. "We went to a memorial service for S____. Did you know her?"

<strong>I watched Q's face closely, my own chest filled with fear/pain/anger/concern and mother bear love at the thought of my 11-year-old being included in such a painful experience.</strong>

"Yes, I met her a few times," I said. "I knew her husband better than her." I paused. "It's really sad, isn't it?"

"Yeah. Especially because of how she died. Do you know how she died?"

"Yes. Well," I added, "what do you know?"

"She was worried about a lot of things with money and the recession, and she felt like everything was her fault..." Q trailed off, then said what was so hard to say: "So she basically killed herself."

<strong>I was at once thankful that my ex-husband didn't mask the truth and angry that my little girl was exposed to something so impossible to understand, even as an adult.</strong> Why wasn't I consulted, or at least given a head's-up about the decision to take Q to the memorial service?

But at the same time, I don't know what I would have said or done. Would I have told him not to take her? Or not to tell her the truth? Would <em>I</em> have taken her, if the person who died was <em>our</em> family friend? It would depend on many factors, but the answer certainly isn't a clear <em>no</em>.
<h4>Navigating childhood without blinders, parenthood without reigns</h4>
As a child, I was shielded from so much of life, all the way through my teen years. Well, I eventually found out things on my own, but they weren't really discussed as a family. Certain topics just weren't brought up—divorce, same-sex relationships, tragic death, or anything that's really difficult to explain.

<strong>That's not the approach Jason and I are taking with our girls, largely because we don't have a choice. Our kids have already faced difficult things, head-on.</strong> Life has just happened. Some of these difficult topics are realities in their lives. And while it might not make their lives easier, I think the complexity adds depth to their characters, and broadens their understanding and compassion. I think they gain more good from it than bad.

<strong>As a mom, I have to trust that, and let go. That's one of the most difficult things about being divorced with kids—the letting go.</strong> I am always their mother, whether they're with me or not, but I have to lessen my grip on the maternal control I'm hard-wired to crave. It's part of being a parent, even if you're not divorced. I just find myself facing more of these letting go moments than I'd like to, especially when my kids are this young. And I have to mostly accept that. Fighting it would result in a lot of misery for all of us, and I don't think my kids would be better off in the end.
<h4>A glimpse of "Normal"</h4>
I asked Q a few more questions about the memorial service. She told me how sad it was, and how many people were crying. But she seemed OK. The laundry was folded, and Q took her stack of clean clothes up to her room to finish packing for a week at her beloved church camp. I was about to let go, once again.

As we drove the two-and-a-half hours to the camp, where I would leave her in the hands of grownups I don't really know, I took a deep breath, watching the picturesque farm fields fly by. We passed Normal, Illinois, on our way, and it humored me, as it always does. (I'm strange that way.)

<strong>What is "normal," after all?</strong> It's probably normal, as a mom, to have a difficult time letting go of so many aspects of my kids' lives. My concerns and fears—they're surely normal. But we have made the choice to not reside there, with those fears. Instead, we wave to them, and continue driving on by.