One Day You’re Going to Want to Go

If I’ve learned anything in these past few weeks that I haven’t posted, it’s to write WHEN ‘it’ happens, whatever the ‘it’ is of the moment. Waiting makes for no posting at all, or even worse, posts that are too long and don’t even say what you wanted them to say in the first place.

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