On the train from London to Penzance, two mothers had politely tucked into seats at the rear of our car, each tending to her baby away from the other passengers. It had gotten dark outside, so the train ride was suddenly not as interesting.

I walked back to use the restroom, and when I came out, one of the mothers stood with her baby girl to prepare to wrap her up against the mother’s back. While she was doing that, I said hello, and I smiled at her baby girl and started talking to her, and she looked at me with her big, dark, sleepy eyes and smiled and was so sweet. The other mother stood up, gave me a huge, dimpled smile and hello, and dominated the space from then on.

Her baby boy, much bigger than the baby girl, was actually younger than the baby girl, could I believe that?! This was a kind of a battle of the classes to take over the conversation and humble brag on her child, but she’d already “won” the class battle against the mother of the baby girl, so I continued to give the baby girl attention until after she was securely fastened to her mother’s back and her eyes were fluttering shut. The baby boy fussed, tired and wanting a warm bottle of formula, which was impossible on the train. His mother apologized to him a hundred times.

When the baby boy’s mother asked me where I was from and I answered “Winter Park, Florida… near Orlando,” she lit up. She knew Winter Park! She used to be a nanny in Windermere [the wealthy neighborhoods near Disney World], so we had been “neighbors” for several years. When you’re headed to the southernmost tip of England, that common connection to a faraway place means more than one would expect.

At the end of about fifteen minutes of pleasant chatting, which turned out to be good conversation about babies and their development (and of course we chatted about my grandchildren), I said something that stopped the former nanny in her tracks. “I’ve never heard anyone say that before, ever. People always talk about how they miss their children being young. They never say _____ [what I just said].” I said, “Did I just say that? Well, I guess I did.”

What I said was how satisfying it is to see my children well into their thirties, to see the people you’ve become and the lives you’ve built for yourselves, to see the choices you’ve made and the things you hold dear. I told her it’s humbling and joyful to witness. That’s not to say that I don’t miss you as little children.

When you were young, I realized many times just how much five minutes of the most ordinary day would mean to me in the future– only I could not have it then. It could not be relived. That quickening made my days with the four of you even sweeter. 

The way she put it was, “People always talk about how they miss their children being young. They are sad that their children grew up. They never say how they appreciate their children as adults. They act as if once the children are grown, the joy is gone. But you’ve made me see it a different way.” I have you four– and your wives– to thank, because this is how I feel every day.

This isn’t to say that you each haven’t had your bumpy periods. There were days, weeks, months, and sometimes years when I hung on to hope that you would become the people I thought you could be. You know better than I know how hard your hard times were. But the truly awesome thing is that the people you’ve become are far more principled, interesting, and nuanced than my imaginings of who you could be.

And you all made it. How blessed we all are that you made it. You survived your parents’ divorce. You survived and continue to battle the challenges of being neurodivergent. You’ve bravely moved to the places that called your name. You’ve chosen to have children or not have children. You’ve dared to marry who you love.

I know that in some situations, “strong” is necessarily a verb, because it requires action on your part. And I’m proud of every one of you for continuing to be strong and for finding the paths that lead you to joy.

It’s most satisfying for me as your mother to feel that the balance has shifted– you are the vital adults in the spotlight now, while I settle into my place here, watching.