I’ve had the most amazing conversations lately with, of all
people, my mother.
The fact that I speak with my mother is nothing unusual:
we’re on good terms, and both tend to be chatty. It’s the nature of the
communication that’s extraordinary. One of us … or perhaps both, I can’t tell …
has crossed the Rubicon, so to speak, and I find myself in a whole new place
with her. It’s an unexpected joy, and
comes at just the right time.
See, my husband and I have just “launched” our youngest
child. Our daughter joined her brother
in the ranks of young adults living away from home and attending college, and
we are now so-called Empty Nesters. This
has come with the usual amount of flurried activity and stress and angst and
unexpected expenditures and bittersweet moments and long hugs … followed by
arrival in the now-quiet house where the impatient dog continues to make
demands.
Nothing about this transition surprised me, until I called
Mom. Granted, she tends to say
surprising things. Annoying things,
actually. Comments which, in the past
have, shall we say, “rubbed me the wrong way.”
For example, when my son was a little guy I remember confessing some
ongoing worry I had about him, and after she was done patiently listening to me
she summed up the conversation with, “Yup. Kids. It’s a lifetime sentence.”
Or, how about when that same little boy got his license, and
I called her the first time he pulled out of the driveway and drove off,
alone. “I know,” she said. “I haven’t slept a wink since you got your license.” “Mom, I’m a 50-year old woman,” I exclaimed,
to which she shot back, “Let me tell you: it’s a long time to go without a good
night’s sleep.”
Sometimes I ask myself why I continue to telephone my mother
at my most vulnerable moments, but what I realize is that the apple has not
fallen very far from the tree and, like her, I am a consummate worrier. Not a “helicopter” parent, mind you. I’m truly happy to see them pack their bags
and take off and live their lives: I
remember that stage myself, and it’s so necessary and exciting and
wonderful. But I worry about
safety. Tractor trailers on I-84 while
he’s driving to college. Strangers lurking in dark corners while she’s walking
back to her dorm late at night. When they are three years old and holding your
hand crossing the street, you can put your body between them and the oncoming
vehicle … but not anymore.
Which is something I now share with my mother. For some reason a huge gulf has closed
between us, and I find myself toe-to-toe with a fellow parent who is practicing
the art of “letting go and letting God.”
Ironically, I’ve caught up with her, and now we both have adult children who live far from us. Suddenly, her wry observations about children
are rather amusing, and wise, so when we deposited our daughter at college this
past week, Mom was my first call.
“Just wait,” she said, after I filled her ear with
descriptions of every shade of emotion I had experienced. “You think it’s hard leaving your kids? Try leaving your grandkids. You’ll love them
like your own, but then you have to leave them with these people who don’t know
what they’re doing!”
As the incompetent implicated by that remark I suppose I
should have been irritated … but instead I found myself laughing out loud at a
moment when I might otherwise have been crying.
And I marveled at my mother’s gift for redirecting me and putting things
in perspective.
In all honesty, we didn’t cry as we drove away from our
daughter’s college last week, but this poem got me.
Waving Good-Bye
By Gerald Stern
I wanted to know what
it was like before we
had voices and before
we had bare fingers and before we
had minds to move us
through our actions
and tears to help us
over our feelings,
so I drove my daughter
through the snow to meet her friend
and filled her car
with suitcases and hugged her
as an animal would,
pressing my forehead against her,
walking in circles,
moaning, touching her cheek,
and turned my head
after them as an animal would,
watching helplessly as
they drove over the ruts,
her smiling face and
her small hand just visible
over the giant pillows
and coat hangers
as they made their
turn into the empty highway.
