His eyelashes were too long for a boy, or so everyone would say. “Why do boys always get the beautiful lashes?” I figured it was so they could quickly learn how to get themselves out of trouble. His eyes were a gray blue and when he looked up at me from his resting place on my lap, they danced, happy with a day of mischief and fun.

The quilt he settled under had been hand-stitched no less than 20 years prior by an aunt who wasn’t…my cousins’ Aunt Flossie. She’d made them for all of us “kids” and mine was a favorite for snuggle time and I-don’t-feel-so-good-time. It was starting to show age, but I figured that’s why Aunt Flossie made it – to be used, not displayed.

“Can you promise me something, buddy?”

“What, Mommy?”

“Will you still do this when you’re 15 and long and leggy and entirely too cool for me?”

His blue eyes blinked and questioned and the gapped-tooth grin eased my mind. “Of course, Mommy. You’re my favorite pillow.”

He snuggled in deeper, giggling as I snuck in a tickle and the evening went back to the monotony known as family life. But, I couldn’t settle back into my show. My head leaned back to rest on the couch and I closed my eyes, wondering about this little one. What will he look like when he’s 15? Will he be tall and spindly or short and stout? Will his hair darken like his daddy’s did? Will he still look up to his sister even though by then, she’ll be *gulp* gone for college? Will his freckles still dot his face and his blue eyes illuminate a darkened part of my soul? And truly. Will he still cuddle on the couch? Will he even fit!?

I opened my eyes and looked down and low and behold, there were my answers. It was 10 years later and the weight he created on my lap was much heavier. His hair was a bit darker and now, it was long, flowing well past his neck line. The silkiness stayed, as did the long eyelashes. Some freckles remained and a few were replaced with…acne. He even had hair on his upper lip!! Visible hair. His gapped-tooth grin was no more as braces, recently removed, had straightened and rearranged. My hand couldn’t reach his bum anymore and no…

…no, he did not fit on the couch. The cute little snuggled bundle of days’ past was now a pile of limbs and joints, jutting the well-worn quilt into an odd couch sculpture. Yes, Aunt Flossie would have been thrilled. Her quilt has been used for nothing less than love and care-taking.

And my little imp, my sweet freckle-faced moppet still rests his head on my lap at the end of a day of mischief and fun.

And I ache with joy.

But, it was to always remain far removed.  I mean, that just went without saying, didn’t it?

Until I got a phone call Wednesday morning.  It started benign enough; it was my daughter.

“What are you doing today?”

“I have a hair appointment at noon, why?”

“Well, um…Nathan needs a new phone.”

“Oh?  Did his break?”

“Heh.  No.  Um.  You see.  Well…”

“Abby…”

“Yeah.  I’m *audibly fidgets* trying here.”

[non-verbal maternal paranoia]

“So.  Nathan was um…well, you see…Mom.  He, um.  Hewasrobbedatgunpointlastnight.”

And the swirl began.  You know that swirl, don’t you?  That swirl that starts in your throat, goes straight to your gut and then to your heart, spiraling slowly through your body, reaching every corner, taking any loose nerves it can find and sparking them alive but only before promptly killing them.  The warm rush, the cold chills, the 10,000 questions, the blockage from hearing any answers because there is no way an answer will make anything better.

Well, except for one.

“Is he okay?”

“Yeah, Mom.  He’s okay.  I mean, well, no.  But…they didn’t hurt him.  He’s here with me.”

With that assurance, the spiral continues, on a slower path this time, and there is time to ask the questions and wait for the answers.  So, I asked, and she answered and I asked some more and she answered some more and we decided I would head right up there to…

…to what?  I haven’t the foggiest notion, but I’ll be damned if I wasn’t going.  I knew I needed to hug him.  To hold him.  To look into his bluest of blue eyes and find out for myself if he was really okay.  And, I needed to help ease his fear.  He wanted to change his appearance a little because they threatened they’d come back for him.  He wanted a new phone so he didn’t feel any less detached than he did that 90 minutes those evil, greedy, sadistic bastards drove him all over the east side of Columbus making him try ATM after ATM to get all of the money out of his savings account.  He wanted to make sure his accounts were safe and that his nightmare would be over.

Now, we all know that fixing those things wasn’t going to end this poor young man’s nightmare.  But, it was a start.  So, together we started.  And as we drove to my beautician, he told me the details of his evening.  And I held his hand as the intensity of the situation overwhelmed me – he was still in a bit of shock, reporting it all as though he was telling me about his latest Music History lecture.  As the next two days unfolded, he would remember more details, or would be more brave to speak of them.  As we waited for paperwork to process at the bank, only 12 hours after his capture, a news station had arrived at his apartment wanting an interview.  They met us where we were and were so gentle and kind to him, letting him decide how much of himself, how much of the evening, just how much he wanted to tell the world.

“Why do they want to interview me!?”

“This doesn’t happen everyday.  They abducted you, Nathan.”  Shock was graciously protecting him from the reality of the situation.  The reality that with one wrong move, hell, with one right move – one.different.move. we could have been standing over his dead body at a morgue.  He could have been the next victim on The First 48.  The next “fictionalized” story on any of the crime dramas that he hates watching.  While I think he knew, I don’t think he really knew. And, for that, I’m grateful.

We didn’t finish all of the logistical things you fix after a simple robbery on that first day.  So, I took my babies home to me, kept them under my roof for one night.  Just one, but a night I think we’re all grateful we had together.  I had to wake them up from the deepest sleep I think I’d ever seen either of them in.  And, the day pushed forward, and Nathan’s shock slowly slipped away.  He’d fidget as we waited out on a downtown street for his driver’s license picture to process.  He swapped places with me, distancing himself from a hooded African American man walking our direction, harmlessly doing his own daily chores.  His confident gait became a bit more unsure, his steady gaze a bit more shifty.

Oh, he’d smile at funny things and engage in conversation with anyone he needed to.  He struggled through breakfast, but ate a bit more peacefully at lunch.  He’d answer every question I had for him and never showed an ounce of resentment that this woman – this woman who was not his mother – was nurturing him to virtual suffocation.  And then, I had to let him head to a few classes.  He stood on College Avenue, his big eyes still dead, large with a hint of fear.  But, he did it.  He crossed the street and I drove off and he managed.  Somehow.

That night, he was alone at the apartment, and it became a bit overwhelming.  After a few silly emails and texts, my phone rang and we spoke for quite some time about a whole lot of nothing.  He never said he was scared, but we both understood that we both understood.  His girl would be home eventually and their 3rd roommate even later, but in those moments, when he was alone, his mind was his company.  His memory, his imagination, his fear.  And those three things are not good party guests.  Not together.  But, he made it.

And every day, he makes it.  Timing has been a gift because a dear high school friend is home this weekend from his Navy assignment in Japan.  It’s all boy time all the time.  What a wonderful gift for him.  But, there is even a better gift; one we never thought would happen to us…

…if you watch The First 48, you know the theme of the show is just that.  After a crime is committed (murder on that show), the detectives want to find a major lead, a perpetrator, SOMEone to point a finger within the first 48 hours after the crime.  It ups the percentage of closing the case, of making the streets safer, of comforting a victim and helping them heal.

Within the first 48 hours, Nathan got a call from the lead detective.  He had a photo array for Nathan to look at.  Yes, it was for only one of his four captors, but it was one.  And Nathan looked at that piece of paper and without blinking an eye said, “Oh.  Number three.  Definitely.”

Minimum jail time?  20 years.

Nathan is 20 years old.

I’d say that’s pretty fair – a lifetime for a lifetime.

Now, they have to find the other 3, but finding one makes that all that much more possible.  Helps all of us breathe a little easier.  Helps Nathan know that even though they threatened his life, his family’s life, and took away his feeling of security – at least for a time – he did the right thing by coming forward and telling his story.

In the first 48 there was shock and grief and betrayal and fear.

In the second 48 and beyond, there is healing.

So, here I am, trying to type up something I should have written 2 weeks ago. Let’s hope this one goes better than the last.

When my now 19-year-old daughter was five, she did what most 5-year-olds do and went into Kindergarten. And, I did what most mothers of Kindergarteners do. I missed her horribly. Other than a few temporary jobs and the part time gig I held directing music at a rural church, I was a stay-at-home mom.

Being at home, it gave me time to think about her absence. To spend that 2.5 hours with her little brother contemplating all that Kindergarten meant. It meant that I would no longer be the only voice of learning she would hear. It meant that I was trusting part of her upbringing to the public schools. It meant that maybe, just maybe, a teacher would become her number one adult and not me. It meant she might make friends with turdish children, or worse, with children with turdish mothers! It meant, above all, that I was giving up some of my control over my little girl’s life.

With all of that in mind, the first day was rough for me. Of course, you know it wasn’t rough for her. She went happily, played happily, learned happily, came home happily and very happily repeated the process the next day. In between the 1st and 2nd days, I went to my job at the rural church and was chatting with a friend about my emotions of the day. She was an older woman, her kids already adults and having children of their own, but we had a conversation I’ll never forget.

“Did you feel almost a physical ache when you sent your first to Kindergarten? Like a little bit of you was being cut away?” I asked.

“Nope. Never felt that way. My purpose was to raise my kids and send them into the world prepared and responsible. I just saw it as the first of many important steps.”

Those words of hers have echoed through my head for the entirety of my child-rearing years. On straight reading, they seem logical. On first hearing they seemed semi-logical, but something hit me then, and now…14 years later…hits me still. I didn’t want to be that kind of mom.

The kind of mom who is more focused on responsibility than teaching your children heart-felt concern. The kind of mom who is more into law & order in the home, than day-to-day living, and how a few simple guidelines make life so much more simple, more enjoyable, more fun. The kind of mom who doesn’t shed a few tears when that big yellow monster comes and takes her child away on the first day of school.

Some would say that I’ve been too lax with my kids. I swear like a sailor and never really took much time to filter myself in front of them. As to be expected, both of my teens swear like sailors. It really doesn’t faze me much. They aren’t required to do too many chores around the house, because honestly, I just never saw the point in getting into weekend battles about cleaning the room or vacuuming the floor like I grew up with. I figured we’d battle it out on other, much more important issues. And we have.

But, somehow, they seem to have turned out okay. Someday I’ll tell you about my wonderful son, but today’s writing is about Abby.

My daughter, now 19, has some anxieties that I wish she didn’t carry. She forgets to feed her cat and wherever her “work space” is, it’s typically in need of a good organizing. But, she is wise and funny and loyal and talented. And, after Lisa’s death last year, she became a solid post upon which to lean. She is in love with a wonderful man, who also became a great support during my loss. (Son & hubby were awesome, too – can’t leave them out of that!) She is succeeding in art school and has a fantastic part time job that she adores.

While this last year of grief has sealed it, all 19 years of her life have been making it happen . She is my heart. Yes, so is son and yes, so is hubby. But Abby has a place in it that was made only for her. The place that ached with want when she waved goodbye at her Kindergarten room door. The place that swelled with joy when she won awards for her writing and her art. The place that bit its proverbial fingernails when she did a solo in marching band – when being the center of attention is the last thing she ever wanted to be. The place that now sits in the living room in the evening and wonders why the couch feels like it’s going to slip into the oblivion. It’s because she’s not on “her” end of it, holding it down, balancing my world.

She moved out 2 weeks ago. She did it voluntarily and with her parents’ blessing. She has a darling place with that aforementioned wonderful man and another friend from Ohio State. Those two young men would do anything for her, so the worry I have is nothing beyond the norm…don’t go into the alley alone at night, lock your doors, walk on High Street instead of Summit, do you know what to do when you feel a cold coming on? Eat your vegetables!!!

But the ache? Oh, I suppose it’s nothing beyond the norm either. I suppose it’s more than that friend from church felt when her oldest moved out, but that’s because while I see this move as another step in living a responsible adult life, I also see it as a loss in my life. An imbalance in our home. A cacophony that will, in due time, become melodious again.

It becomes melodious when she visits. When we’re in our groove – a groove that grooves a little differently without her here. Without her groggy morning grunts, without her bombastic belches rattling our walls, without her laughter and scattered pieces of failed drawings littering my floors. Without calls for midnight Steak & Shake runs and without her purposely mismatched socks resting on my legs after a hard night at work. We’ll piece it together. Eventually.

Until then, I lay down at night and mentally put my ducks in a row and I’m reminded that she’s not in her room anymore. Nor is she downstairs canoodling with her sweetie. Nor is she in her basement studio soldering wire or painting squares for a color concepts project. She’s not here. My oldest duck has left the nest.

And I’m handling it like any mother duck would. Calm and steady on the surface. But, underneath? I’m paddling like mad.

I’ve been so envious of the younger mothers whose blogs I read religiously. How they’ve had technology and resources to beautifully document their children’s lives. Or maybe I’ve been envious of their talent in using such resources. But, I figured, you know, I have a scanner. I have mp3s. I have digital photos and I have the smarts to figure out a movie maker. So, while it’s not fancy, it’s heartfelt – my one and only of my first and foremost.

Music by Ben Folds – “Gracie” from the album Songs for Silverman