Yesterday, I sat at my desk assured that I would finish my blog. I had all day, right? There was time. Ok, sure, I had been saying that all week but this time I meant it.
I sat upright - like I’ve seen writers in the movies do. I pondered. Oskar, open your heart. I know something will come. But nothing. I slouched (my particular writing posture) and my eyes drifted away from the screen out the window where I spotted a maintenance man across the street, washing the sidewalk. His hose didn’t miss a spot. I was mesmerized. How satisfying. How soothing. I remember my son telling me how a video of someone cleaning something filthy went viral (I’m clearly not alone in this feeling).
Suddenly I find myself jumping out of my chair and walking towards my cleaning supplies. I quietly beg myself, Where are you going? Come back here. We need to write! But it’s too late. I want to be like a man across the street; I want to accomplish something! Bucket. Water. Soap. Where’s the squeegee?
With my arsenal now ready to roll. I start clearing off my makeshift bookcase (or what you might call a window sill) and open my window to the city outside.
I notice the child gates I have; I have always hated them, but it’s the law here. Isn’t my son old enough now? I mutter. I stop to google it. Yes! Let's take those babies off! I grab my electric drill and as I take out each screw I can feel my freedom. It feels so symbolic to be taking these off as I begin my journey of writing a blog.
I tug at the metal bars, and suddenly my window screen comes loose, almost plummeting into the street below. I grab it just in time, take a deep breath, look down at the people passing by, and decide it is probably time to call my super to help me get the screen back in. But then I think, since he’s here, why don’t I have him take all the gates off and then I can clean all windows and all the screens?
I can hear my writer inside me call. “Hey, what about the blog?” “Not to worry”, I reply, “We’ve got time! Doesn’t that window look great now?”
Robby, now here, immediately starts in with me. “You know, kids really do fall out of the windows. Two already died this year.” He informs me.
My mind quickly races to Eric Clapton’s son who fell through a window in New York City. He was four. My mind rolls on to my friend Marian whose son passed away a few weeks ago from a sudden stroke. He was 31.
Robby continues. “I guess your kids are big now.” I want him to stop. “Yeah, it happens so fast.” I continue cleaning, ignoring his words. LA LA LA I want to scream, I CANT HEAR YOU!
I keep clearing and cleaning to push his words out of my mind, but then I find six tiny rocks in front of me. Each rock bears a letter, together spelling M.O.M.M.Y, and the last rock has a heart. My eldest daughter made these seven years ago during a beach trip.
I pick up the small stones as if they are babies and hold them against my chest. My daughter has graduated high school. She is leaving. I have 83 days left with her before our lives change forever.
Everything has been moving so fast lately, another event to mark and celebrate the end of the year. A party, an award event, the senior dinner, the graduation - watching my daughter take her diploma. Life moves so fast. Wasn’t it yesterday when she was small? Stop! I want to scream.
By the time Robby is finished, it is time to pick up my son. I promise myself, “Later”, but later I am nowhere closer to writing anything.
After dinner, I sit down again, and still nothing. What was happening? Where were all my words? Too tired to answer, I went to bed.
Early this morning as my children lay asleep. I began to understand. I am afraid to write what I really want to write about.
This blog is like the gates for me. I am taking them down, letting people in. I don’t want to be afraid to fall or die from allowing someone in. As an artist, as a person, I just want to be myself - a deep, feeling, complicated, me.
So here is what I want to say.
My baby is moving on.
I remember the first the first morning after her birth. I was alone. Really, there were ten other women in the massive room with their babies, but it felt like just me and her. I gently put on the tiny onesie I had handpicked for this moment up onto her legs and across her body until I reached her arms, where for some reason, I thought she would push her hand through into the sleeve. (Rookie move. Babies can’t do that.)
Once she was dressed, I started walking away as if she would follow. I had been so used to carrying her in my belly that I forgot we were now separate. I turned back and stared at her lying on the bed. I was afraid to pick her up. What if I dropped her? What if I wasn’t able to help her know how special she was?
The nurse walked by and called out to me, “What are you waiting for? Pick her up.” In fear of being laughed at, I put my hands underneath her small body, brought her close to my chest, and said a little prayer, “Please God, help me keep her safe.”
From that moment on, I vowed I would never walk away from her again. I would make sure that she was the one leaving me. And now that time has come.
My children and I are so close. We even have a name for ourselves - Team Sofa (our initials). This feels like Johh leaving The Beatles. And sure, I loved John’s solo album - but I loved The Beatles.
I will miss seeing her face every morning, her voice calling from beyond, “I love you Mamma.” I will miss hearing about her day at dinner. The way she can turn any piece of paper into origami. Hearing her laugh as she watches James Acaster for the 100th time. Her depth, her special way of seeing the world. Her kindness, her love of her siblings and family. Her staunch friendships. Her steadiness in who she is. The way she tried to help me understand how static electricity works. Her joy of travel and that she loves airports as much as I do. And mostly, our deep love for each other and the supportive force she is in our family unit.
I feel so sad that this is the end of this time with my daughter. In the 18 years I have had the privilege to be with her, there has not been one moment where I was not in awe to be with her (or her siblings). Each second has been magical, joyful, rich, and rewarding.
And now the process of her leaving and moving on to another section of her life and ours is difficult. For one can not rush to the finish line. These painful processes are what make our lives richer in the end. But in a world where we have been told that we must always feel ok, I have been getting a lot of push back about my feelings of not being ok.
Here are some of the things people have said to me:
Oh, she’s your first one. At least you have two more.
Don’t you want her to go?
You need to let go.
Your sadness says you want her not to go. She’ll be stunted.
You shouldn’t cry.
It will be wonderful for her.
You’ll feel differently about it after.
I heard the most helpful advice during the graduation from one of the speakers. “There will be those adults that will come to give you advice. Please know they are only reminiscing about their own lives. Just smile as they speak, but know you need not take their offerings.”
So here are my replies to those:
My children are not cookies on a plate - They are human beings. I have such a beautiful and unique relationship with each one.
Yes, Of course I do!
I am letting go. Crying and grieving is the process.
I think what stunts us, is when one does not fully feel.
I am pretty sure when the universe gave me tears, I was supposed to use them.
Of course, it will be wonderful for her. I’m crying for me, not her.
Yes, that is probably true - as I have lived a lot fo life. But allow me the dignity to find my own way.
For now, I will sit in my process. I will not try and march through this like a good soldier. I will hold my daughter tight, feel all my feelings, cry as much as I need to, give gratitude for the years I was able to fully be there with her, and allow the healing and the growth to take it’s time.
For all you who have your own graduations this year, I wish you peace, joy, and lots of love in any way you need to process.