Tonight, we sat down and ordered Grace’s bedding for college. She unceremoniously announced that her college move in date had been moved up—something about quarantining with the volleyball team before the season started. I neither gasped nor sobbed, taking the news in stride. Who are these college administrators and cold, Corona committees deciding with relentless certainty that the can take my girl weeks ahead of time? Grace will move to college 6 days after her 18th birthday. That means I’ll have had her as mine for a minuscule 6576 days. Impossibly brief. Not crying.
We talked of microwaves and laptops and financial aid. She lingered and I noticed. A little while later, she said, “We are going to go over to J’s house, okay?”
“No problem,” I said, barely glancing up from the show she had recommended that I had turned on after handing her my credit card.
Suddenly, every inch of nearly six feet of her was on my lap. Her head buried against my chest, tucked under my chin and pressed against the length of me—the two of us sprawled out on a recliner in my messy, darkening living room. Startled by the unexpected sweetness in the middle of my weeknight, I pulled her sweet blond head to me and breathed her in.
“I’m really going to miss you,” she said. Or did she? Such words, such actions are not at all like my girl. Sitting here now, I wonder—did I imagine it? I think I held her close and murmured about how I would never be far away, how I would come to every game, how I would always stay close. I think I told her it was time for her to spread her wings and she was going to love what was coming next. Or did I? Sitting here not crying now, I wonder—did my tough as nails grown girl actually linger in my arms contemplating a future away from me and hesitate? Surely not. The glisten in her eyes was not tears. Was it the grinch who said sometimes he loved so much it leaked out of his eyes? Surely this is the glitter I saw on her cheeks—my own messy, gigantic love spilling out over both of us. None of that happened, surely. It’s just me and this bottle of wine and a new series on Netflix. My big beautiful girl is busy with her own life like always. Not crying.
My own mom stopped by tonight. She dropped off a pillow she had taken home after noticing it needed mending. She mentioned how she had changed the sheets at two beds at the lake last weekend when she was there. That’s how she shows love. That’s how Grace shows it. They don’t hurl themselves into arms and weep—that’s not how we usually roll. We fix things and drop off things that are needed. We throw in a load of laundry and bring salads and help pack stuff and send thank you cards to show love. We take care of shit. We don’t generally weep and embrace. And yet. Not crying.
It’s been a strange and beautiful night, a perfect night for ending a blog series on a beloved girl I’ll send into her future in a few short weeks. Just 6576 days after I first saw her. 6576 days after I fell so deeply in love I can’t even remember who or what I was before the fall. She’ll be great, in that unknown future without me. I hope I’ve given her roots and wings and all the things the poets speak of. I also hope I’ve given her fluency in sarcasm and faith and wonder and grit and a belief that if she wants to have a few drinks, just sticking with beer is her best option in college and, really, always. I hope she keeps wearing messy buns and lifting weights like its her job. I hope she keeps picking up random art projects and pouring hours of worry free bliss into this soul feeding creativity. I hope someday she remembers how much she used to love to sing—and sheds all her ideas about athletes and theater types and just sings open mouthed and loud for the joy of it—at karaoke night or at church or in the shower or in front of an audience of thousands. I hope eventually my love of reading catches up in her genes and she embraces the world through the written word like I have—it’s a glorious and fruitful gift. I hope she adores college sports like I did, and I hope it reveals to her all the confidence and freedom that she was born with and deserves to know. I hope she finds friends and loves and passions and interests. I hope she stays up late having academic debates and I hope she finds God whispering in her soul no matter where she goes or what she does just like I always have. Not crying.
How can I let her go? How can I not? I’m sure I’ve screwed it all up. I was too easy and too hard and I let her sleep with me when she was a baby and I was super laid back about her curfew as a teenager and I surely gave her too much sugar and too much gas money and not enough help on her math homework or advice about make-up. But none of these errors have been for lack of trying or—God knows—a lack of love. I advised her regularly on grammar and I made her go to church. I cut up so many watermelons these last 18 years because fresh fruit is her favorite thing. I don’t even like watermelons. I went to swim meets and soccer games (I think it’s ok to admit now that I always hated swim meets and soccer games) and I missed almost none of her storied volleyball career (I’ve always loved volleyball). I went to band concerts and awards ceremonies. I signed permissions slips and I packed lunches and I tried so hard to always be what she needed me to be. I fell short in a thousand thousand ways and I loved her so much—too much—up close and in her face and from the back row of the middle school parent night where she wanted me because I couldn’t imagine not loving her and not being there or ever ever ever being without her and letting her go. Not crying.
A few weeks ago, my girl and I found ourselves briefly alone at the lake. I was gazing out over the water and waxing sentimental. “I’m just not sure I did it right,” I lamented. “I think I drank too much and clung too hard. I think I had too many kids and didn’t focus on you enough. But at the same time, I’m sure I would have been too much if there had only been one or two of you. Was I the parent you needed me to be?”
“Mom,” she said, every bit her usual pragmatic and unemotional self. “I think you were great. I mean, look at me,” she said teasingly, “I turned out awesome.” Which is, objectively, true. Not crying.
But this is just a random weeknight—perhaps a full moon or a result of some weird alchemy of humidity and regret. It’s just a fleeting tender moment that I probably imagined anyway. It’s just a hug and a heartbeat. It’s just a few thousand days in the course of a long life. It’s just a girl, a mom, a life, a goodbye. I’m not crying. You’re crying.
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