Gone Girl

 

I always knew that one day she would fly the nest. Everybody told me. It's in all the parent books. I mean, it's The Goal, right? Good Parenting 101. Love them, raise them, teach them well, send them on their way.

I was fortunate that she never really went to many sleepovers. Like me, she preferred to stay home.

She was in school when she went to her first and only sleep-away camp. I drove her the five hours away and left her at a college dorm for a week. I don't know if she knows that I had to pull over and cry on the way home.

A few years later she went off to college, another school five hours away from home. We bought all the things and packed all the cars and followed her north to set up her dorm. She let me carry it all in on a blistering hot Louisiana day. She let me make the bed. And then I had to just leave her there. Alone! It was nearly the hardest thing I ever had to do. I'm pretty sure she knows I cried most of the way home. 

Turns out it was a bit of a false start, though, as Covid interrupted her freshman year and sent her back home just a few months after she left.

But then things settled down and she flew again ... and again ... and again... until she came home with a diploma. But, truth be told, she pretty much dropped it off, along with some dirty laundry and all the college paraphernalia she no longer needed, and moved in with her boyfriend. Turns out, all those times were practice for the real thing.

But even though she wasn't in my nest any longer, and her old bedroom was finally clean and tidy, she was close. She could come over to raid the fridge or borrow something to wear. I could invite her over when I made chili, lasagna or vegetable soup. We could entice her with a nice Sunday roast. Her friends actually enjoyed our pool. 

We had a routine. She lived in her space with her boyfriend -then-fiance-then husband (same guy!), a dog and three cats and I didn't have to clean up after her. It was nice. Hugs were easy to request and to receive.

Then she lowered the boom. 

Just a few months after her lovely summer wedding, she announced that they were moving all the way to Florida. The plan was to live with Gavin's grandparents to cut expenses and save some money to get steadily on their feet. 

OK. Sure.

Yes, I was in denial. I convinced myself that it wouldn't really happen -- right up until the day it did.

She got a job interview in Florida, started packing up everything she still wanted, tossed the rest, loaded up the dog and now two cats (rest in peace, Flea) and drove off to chase her dreams.

And she just left me here, in my empty nest, surrounded by a bunch of her stuff she doesn't want but doesn't want me to get rid of either. Her wedding dress and bouquet. Her high school letter jacket. A couple of guitars she never learned to play. Books she read and loved. The start of her vinyl collection. A bunch of BTS memorabilia and a whole lot of clothes.

Then there's the stuff she doesn't really want but I don't want to get rid of. Her Grow Up Girls. The box of keepsakes from the day she came home from the hospital (including a pink bubble gum cigar). The keepsakes from the day the judge officially declared she was ours. 

But, there's also a bunch of stuff that we have no place else to put since Hurricane Ida took our garage. There's a full-sized ice chest in the corner and a ceiling fan I can't find anyone to put up for me. A couple of bag chairs and a Tulane tent. I keep rearranging things to make it easier to look at, but there's still a bunch of wedding paraphernalia I'm trying to get rid of.

It's all now traces of someone who used to live here. A room that used to be hers. It's not a shrine or anything, just a glorified storage unit. She won't return someday like some heroine in a Hallmark Christmas movie to find her room just as she left it. I mean, the bed will be made.

But if she needs a jacket, she'll be able to find one in her closet. 

My daughter's wedding

My daughter's wedding took place on a warm, humid night in June, in the courtyard of a unique little venue that once was a small town bank. 

The mother of the groom and I spent many sweaty hours trying to bring my daughter's vision to life, strategically placing silk flowers, votive candles, and bud vases. It was a simple celebration for a young couple just starting out, with one set of parents who are retirees. There was a budget.

She was just stunning in her sparkling white dress and veil, her long jet black hair in soft waves around her face. I had seen her in her dress numerous times since it arrived at our door via UPS, but seeing her all put together with hair and makeup done to perfection just took my breath away. It was the first time I cried.

The groom was handsome -- hot -- in his tuxedo. So was her dad. I mean ... June. Courtyard. Louisiana summer. Hot. 

They didn't invite a bunch of people they didn't know to this celebration. None of mom's or dad's old work friends, nor distant relatives they never see or hear from. They wanted to be surrounded by people they knew and loved. Family. Friends.

Her first mother, Gail, was under the weather but Lora's half-sister came. Her other sister caught the bouquet. Her nieces were the flower girls. I was her "Something Blue." Her Godparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, and several members of her new family she has met only a few times made the trip from several points east and west.

It made me miss my own mama, my brother, and my sister.

But my best friend since the eighth grade was there, just as she was on the day Lora was born, when she surprised me and spent the day keeping me calm and sane as I held my new baby while her first mother watched. On this day, she held on to me when I cried while we watched my husband dance with his baby girl.

There wasn't much dancing, though -- it was much too hot - but there was a lot of love and hope and joy. Familiar faces gathered to celebrate this happy occasion -- my daughter's wedding. 

When adoptive parents receive a child from another woman, a lot of people boldly ask, "Why did she give her away?"

And I figured that one day my little girl would ask me the same question. I was ready.

I found a quote on the internet that I loved and latched on to for my reply: "She didn't give her away. She gave her to me." 

At my daughter's wedding, the minister, a friend of theirs, asked my husband Marty, "Who gives this woman in marriage?'

"My wife and I do," he replied.

And I thought of those words I used so often so long ago.

We didn't give her away. We gave her to Gavin. For safekeeping. To have and to hold. To love and to cherish. In sickness and in health. 

He did ask, so he better do it right. 

We trust him to take care of her, to make her happy, to see to her needs, to make sure she grows old in good health, to make sure she visits us once in a while.

Gail chose us to receive her child. 

Lora chose Gavin to receive ours. 

So now I have a son-in-law and a whole new set of in-laws/out-laws by marriage. We welcome them to our own crazy blended family of steps, halves, and adoptees. 

We know that every step our children take in their lives is really a step away from us. That makes us mamas proud, but it also makes us sad. 

My daughter's wedding was another step in her life's journey forward, even though it takes her another step away from me, from us. 

But now she has a partner by her side to make sure she gets there safely.

Wedding Week

 

There's a brand new sparkly white dress hanging on the back of the door to the bedroom she hasn't lived in for a long time.

There's a sparkly white veil hanging on the mirror next to it.

There are a couple of boxes of new shoes.

Something new.

There is a small ancient hand-sewn bag embossed with the name "Evelyn."  It was my grandmother's, probably for her first communion. I carried this same bag at my wedding. Eveylyn is Lora Leigh's middle name.

Something old.

Our Trophy Room/office is filled with wreaths, silk flowers, photographs, frames and ribbons. There's also a pair of ivory silk baskets that once were filled with rose petals and carried -- on the day of my wedding --  by my stepdaughter and my niece.

Something borrowed.

Hopefully, all of it will come together this week at a venue called The Bank. It really used to be a bank back in the early 1900s, but now it's a unique, rustic wedding and party venue.

And Friday night it will be the site of my daughter Lora Leigh's wedding.

The little baby girl that Gail handed to me on that amazing January day nearly 25 years ago is getting married. She will put on that sparkly white dress, the sparkly veil and her new shoes. She will carry her self-made bouquet and her dad will walk her up to a fine young man named Gavin. She will become his wife. Then she will be changing the name her father and I gave her.

She will become a Branch.

Fitting don't you think? A new branch... branching out... leaving the next on our branch to create her own...

I will be sitting first chair, with a box of tissues, wearing my own sparkly dress and corsage. Blue. 

I am her Something Blue.

I've been trying not to, but I've been crying intermittently for weeks as I think about the event on the horizon. For some reason,  the song "Sunrise, Sunset" keeps rolling through my brain. 

And "Slipping Through My Fingers" from Mama Mia.

"A Thousand Years."

"My Girl"

"I Hope you Dance."

When she went off to college I made her a playlist of all the songs that said all the things I wanted to say to her as she left my nest. She says she listened to it. All of those songs are on it and many, many more that I hoped would explain what was in my heart.  I mean, even the best writers need a little help now and then saying what they want to say on occasions such as this. Especially when you're a crier like me.

What I want to say is, --

My darling girl,

 I waited for you forever, but you were the one I was meant to have all along. And you have filled my world with love and fun and all the colors of the rainbow.  You are the frosting on my cake, the ketchup in my red beans, the pickles in my chili Fritos. I was there when you were born (well, sorta) and I guided you through this life. I always tried to give you everything I could. Now you are a beautiful grown woman building a life of your own. My dandelion seed is flying..

I cry because I'm sad to see you go, but also because I have so much hope for your future.  I hope you love. and are loved -- fiercely.  I hope you are devoted to each other as your dad and I have been to each other. I hope you have fewer bumps in your road. I hope you continue to dream in color. I hope you dance and sing and laugh together.  I hope your skies are always blue. . 

And I'll be here for you as long as I can. Please visit often.

Love, Mom

Home Again

                                  

 It wasn't that long ago that I sat at my computer to write a very sappy blog post about my baby girl going off to college. It was one of the hardest things I've ever tried to write -- not because I couldn't find the right words, but because I could not see very well with the tears pouring down my face and the blubber blocking up my sinuses. 

I get like that sometimes.

At the time, I poured my heart out about how proud I was, but also how sad that my baby girl was leaving me to go off and become her own person, to become even more independent than she already was and pretty much always has been. I marveled at how quickly the time had passed from that moment her first mother placed her in my empty arms to then. How hard it was to let her go.

It was so full of emotions that even she was moved to a tear. (Just one. My girl does not cry like her mama.)

But almost just as quickly, four years flew by and my baby girl is home -- sort of.

Just a few short weeks ago, she donned a purple gown and mortar board, moved her tassel from one side to the other, and graduated Magna Cum Laude from Northwestern State University in Natchitoches, Louisiana, with a Bachelor's degree in Communications. She was on the Dean's List all four years (or the President's List) and was the editor of her school newspaper, The Current Sauce.  Best of all, in four years I never got a call from campus security or a local sheriff's deputy and we made it through with no major traumas, dramas, illnesses or catastrophes. 

Whew! 

I may have been up in the rafters on graduation day, but I could still see her proud smile as she walked across the stage to receive her diploma. I did not cheer. I did not hoot or holler. I did not even caw. I just watched and cried and recorded it so I could watch it again... and again. And so could she. 

And she did not have to see me to know that I was bursting with pride and crying -- again.

Shortly after the ceremony (and the monsoon that hit during it), we posed for a slew of family photos to mark the occasion. We then drove back to her dorm to pack it up and move her out one last time. I got to play car Tetris once more (I am the Master!), stowing her belongings in my car, hers and her boyfriend's. Before we hit the road, we stopped for a quick bite to eat at her favorite spot in Natty -- a little gas station cafe called The French Market. Then we all settled in for the very long drive home.

But this time, she didn't bring all her stuff back to my house to sort through. No, this time it all went to her boyfriend's place just up the street! (Score one for Mom!) Her now tidy bedroom is still tidy! The only thing she gave me was the cap and gown to store safely in one of her many boxes and trunks of keepsakes. 

And I was fine with all of it. After four years, I'm just happy to have her less than four hours away. She is literally one mile away now, in a tidy little trailer she is working hard to decorate and keep clean. We've gone there to see where she put all her stuff and to visit with our grand cat, Flea, and dog, Buddy. She's come home to raid the fridge and the pantry and to swim. It's nice.

So now she begins her post-graduate degree in adulting. She's looking for a job (she's a damn good writer), filling out applications, taking care of their pets, figuring out how to pay the bills, and calling for advice here and there. 

These four years have taught both of us a lot about independence. She has been on her own and survived. And so did I.

So, now that she is home again, I have not become a helicopter mom, opting to let her do it her way. I'm here if she needs me, and if I do happen to spot an interesting job opening on Twitter or Facebook, I do send it her way. The rest is up to her.

A lot of my co-workers and Facebook pals are now where I was four years ago, crying over their soon to be empty nests and lamenting how hard it will be to drive their child miles away and drop them in their new temporary homes. I feel for them. My heart aches for them. But at least now I can tell, them -- they do come home again. Well, sort of. She may not be back in her childhood bedroom, which she never cleaned, but at least she's in the same zip code. 

Quarantine Week 2: The Nest is Full Again

Whaddaya mean you're coming home three months early??? 

Regular readers of this little blog (both of you) may recall that, last August, I wrote a very tearful (well, I cried) post about our baby girl leaving the nest and going off to college.

Although my heart was having a hard time letting her go, my brain recognized that it was her time to spread her wings and fly. Yes, I did cry. A lot. But then the Coach and I had a cute and funny photo shoot showing off our new empty nest.

Don't worry, everyone said. She will be back. I knew she would, I just didn't expect it to happen so soon. Or that she would come back with so much STUFF!

The spread of the Corona Virus has forced colleges to shut down across the country. Classes now are being held online and students are no longer required (or even allowed) to live on campus. Lora didn't hesitate; she booked it home as soon as she could following the announcement. But she only brought a few things with her. Yesterday, we had to go back to move her our of her dorm room four hours away.

It was quite a difference from Move-In Day.

For one, it wasn't 1,000 degrees outside. It was a nice, cool morning with clouds.

Also, there weren't 1,000 people there doing the same thing as us and trying to find the best parking space.  In August, there were student volunteers directing traffic, welcoming new students and befuddled parents, pointing the way to go, telling us what to do. Yesterday, there were about five cars in the parking lot and no one there directing traffic. Inside, there was one young lady, who obviously had nowhere to go during her spring break, waiting to take the keys when we were done.

In August, I was sad but also thrilled to help my daughter set up her new living space. I tried not to be  one of those overbearing moms, offering my help and advice only when asked and allowing her to do her own thing.  Yesterday, I was only sad at the thought that she was losing such a large chunk of her freshman year of college. And she pretty much let me take charge of the packing and the cleaning.

In August, we spent hours unloading Coach's minivan and hauling everything into her room. Yesterday, it took us about 90 minutes to put it all back in. (And I am still the reigning Tetris champion of the universe!)

Now it's all piled up in the spare bedroom downstairs, awaiting her attention. Meanwhile, I'm wondering where in the heck we're going to put it all.

But, as I did in August, I'm letting her do her own thing. Gotta give 'em their space, right?

Letting her go

When Lora Leigh was about 2 years old, we took her to the local church fair for some fun and games.

When we got to the area folks had set up their lawn chairs to listen to the bands play, I put my little girl down so she could dance to the music.

Well, my little girl turned into a pink Tasmanian Devil.

She took off and never looked back.

My curly haired girl went to the middle of the circle of chairs and danced her little tushy off, turning herself in dizzying circles. She never once turned around to see where her dad and I were -- or if we even were still there.

We never let her out of our sight, mind you, and we moved ourselves to keep up with her. The few times I did try to catch her little arm to pull her back to my safety, she shrugged me off and kept going around in circles. "No, Ma," she seemed to be saying. "I don't need you. Let me go."

And, although she won't say them, those are the words my heart will hear next week when I drop her off at college five hours away.

"Let me go."

I know I have to. It's her time to leave the nest and fly on her own. She's smart, practical, mature, ready.  But that doesn't make it any easier on my heart. I waited so long to get her.

We've both spent the last few months preparing for this moment. She by leaving the house as often as possible or hiding in her room. Me by reminding myself that this is what it's going to be like without her.

One day I had a brief conversation with her through her bedroom door. At the end I palmed the wood with love and said, "I'm sure going to miss talking to this door."

And I'm going to miss the little trail of personal items she leaves from the front door to the door of her room -- keys, shoes, purse, headphones, whatever she just bought at the store.

And the products all over the counter in the bathroom because 1) she is a product junkie and 2) everything MUST be within reach and not hidden away in some cabinet.

And the five different shampoos and conditioners in the shower.

And the wet towels on my bedroom chair.

And her dishes in the sink.

And the sound of her beautiful voice singing in the shower.

And her asking "Mom, will you straighten my hair?"

But I also miss the little girl who wore nothing but pink, who lived in a pink room and drank pink milk out of her bottle. Cold.

I miss the pink ball of energy and excitement who explored the world with such enthusiasm. I used to love to take her to the mall. She never was a "I want that" kind of kid, but she would shout to the world "Look at the pink shoes!" And everybody did.

I miss the little girl who had her dad trained to go get a damn balloon first thing when we walked in the doors at Walmart. Then we could shop in peace.

I miss the little girl who made us laugh so often, with quips like, "Mom, I have a memory like a hippopotamus."

I miss the little girl who went to baseball games from the time she was two weeks old but couldn't tell you the first thing about the game until last summer when she discovered that boys played it.

I miss her curls.

I miss the silly songs.

The many, many costumes.

I miss watching The Wizard of Oz over and over and over and over.

And Pocahontas

The little girl who wanted to be a mermaid.

I miss the bedtime stories.

I miss the cuddles in the morning.

I can only wonder what things she will miss about me and her dad and home. Me straightening her hair, for sure. And Sunday roast.

Someone with much better math skills than I and much more time on their hands figured out that, from the time we have a child to the time they leave for college, we only have 940 Saturdays to spend with our children.

All I did was blink and I have one left.

Then I will pack up my car and hers with a whole bunch of stuff she needs and a whole bunch more that she doesn't and take her someplace else to live. Without me.

I will try to just watch as she unpacks it all and decorates her room. I will take her to Walmart for one more run for last minute things.

Then I will let her go.

And try not look back.