Loving Your Kids Mean Often Letting Them Go.( Get the Kleenex!)

Mother’s Day is approaching, and it often brings complex feelings for some people. This blog contains information about the Mother’s Day Show on May 10 and a new story by Karen Kennedy.

MOTHER OF ALL MOTHERS DAY SHOWS:

That’s why I do my annual Mother of All Mothers’ Day shows yearly. This year it’s at the Comedy Bar Danforth, Saturday, May 10, 2025, at 6 pm. Some top-notch storytellers and comics in Toronto are coming to perform and tell their true stories of being a mom and having or losing a mom. Don’t miss out, grab some tickets!

________

Now here’s a story you will be inspired by.

Every Sunday when I teach my memoir class I get to hear the beautiful stories of courage and hope and love from my writers. One of my favourite students is Karen Kennedy from Nova Scotia who has been taking classes for awhile. I always love her touching and often witty stories. But this one is lovely ( and you might need a Kleenex nearby!

At the bottom of the story is the picture of Karen and her daughter Ella, she mentioned. ( Now, who is all grown up)

As well as a picture of Karen’s other daughters. What a beautiful family.

Letting Go Again by Karen Kennedy

I watched her purple-streaked ginger head disappear through the departure gate. She walked pigeon-toed, scuffing the inside edge of her purple Doc Martin boots, her striped socks visible below her jeans. The tightness in my chest grew with each step my daughter took away from me. She didn’t look back, and I, tears clouding my vision, could not pry my eyes away, convinced that I may never see her again.

In the airport terminal I watched the planes take off into clear skies and sunshine. The dark tint from my sunglasses reflected in the window. I thought back to when she was in grade school and she claimed her two imaginary friends, Mimi and Bobo, lived in the sewage treatment plant nearby. She often threatened to go to Mimi and Bobo’s house and her real mother. At 11, on vacation, I followed her in a car as she ran away, pigeon-toed, her purple sweater flapping like wings at her side.

By 15 years of age, she could argue her way out of situations and perceived injustices like a pro-lawyer. I did not know then that someday she would use this skill repeatedly and leave many to wonder how she managed to once again achieve the unimaginable.

Turning away from the terminal window I blew my nose and mumbled something about seasonal allergies to a concerned woman staring at me. I really wanted to tell that woman to “fuck off”. Although I did not swear often, I remembered how my daughter’s swearing, stomping, slamming doors and running away had led to this moment. I felt like doing all those things.

When I was a teenager, I embraced the hippy lifestyle, smoking dope and dancing braless and barefooted. I thought I was invincible until I became pregnant. Dazed and drained, I watched my sleeping baby through the nursery glass waiting for her adoptive parents. Later, having been blessed with three more daughters, I never imagined that one day I would be letting go of my 15-year-old as well.

In my determination to get things right this time I supported her unconventional style by mending the over-sized, tattered garments she liked. Every Halloween, I stocked up on multi-coloured, clown socks that she wore year-round. I bought the hair dye that never would completely hide her beautiful ginger hair. In middle school, other children dressed as her on Halloween and she loved it.

When shopping, my daughter with her piercings and punk like garb was followed by the shopkeeper. Pissed at the expectation that she would shoplift I ushered my girl out of the store. She informed me she was aware of the scrutiny and she wanted it that way.

Despite her disdain for school, she had high grades and teachers often expressed interest in what she would one day become. Her spirit, her intelligence and when in a good mood her ability to crack up the room was infectious. When in a bad mood, her ability to destroy all in her path was catastrophic.

I shuffled slowly to my car and thought of the moment in the past year when I knew that a drastic change was needed. Two police officers sat in my living room, having brought my daughter home after running away for the second time. The woman officer told me that if it happened again that social services would be called. Having let my first child be adopted, there was no way I was letting anyone take my second daughter.

As I floundered, desperately searching for a solution that would keep my brilliant girl alive and educated, she informed me that she had found a fine arts high school in Ottawa. Aware that in Nova Scotia she was a big colourful fish in a wee murky pond and was likely to end up quitting school and looking for excitement elsewhere I supported her through the audition and acceptance process. The cost of out of province tuition was way beyond our means. Luckily, she had an aunt living in Ottawa who was willing to have my daughter live with her but this would require me to legally give up custody of my 15-year-old child.

Although I knew this was the best solution for her, I wondered if a stronger woman, a more capable mother, could have found a way to keep her home. Still the alternative of her ending up on the streets and her younger sisters suffering through the resulting turmoil was unacceptable. I felt like I had no other choice but to let her go to the custody of her aunt.

At that moment, I could never imagine that one day my daughter would have a PHD and be teaching fine arts in university. The only thing I felt at that moment was the deafening quiet of the drive home. My body was a deserted, hollow shell, limp and exhausted. Two daughters let go as an act of love, both felt like failures.

_________