Letting Go Isn't for Sissies

(And other things they forgot to tell me before making people.)

It’s that time of the year again, when my Facebook feed is a photo flood of stylishly decorated dorm rooms and tearful good-byes. Having been-there-done-that-and-lived-to-smile-again, I thought I’d resurrect a fan favorite.

WARNING: It’s not my typical snarky/political fare.
WARNING #2: Kleenex sold separately.

I wrote this shortly after I dropped my youngest baby off alone in New York City—a move that defied logic and sanity on a cellular level. You spend eighteen years making sure you don’t lose them and then—boom!—good luck out there, kid! (Want to make me dissolve into a sobbing mess on the spot? Play this TikTok she made the day we left. Oooooof.)

I’m not gonna lie to you guys; I was not prepared for the pain of the empty nest. You’ve told me you like it when I get personal/sappy/maybe a little maudlin, so I’m resurrecting a piece I wrote to try to make sense of my new normal.

(Before you schedule a welfare check, I’ll tell you that it’ll never be my favorite, but it does get a microscopic bit easier.)

I met you last Sunday. People warned me I might not fall in love with you right away, but I did. You were slight but feisty and you smelled like sunshine and had a howl that could rattle a corpse and even though we had just met, I knew I would kill or die for you. Everyone wanted to be near you, to stroke your velvety skin or be the first to earn a smile, but you only wanted me.

You slept through half of Sunday; I dozed a few times with one eye open. My arms ached from holding you but putting you down would have been even more painful. I stared at your perfect face, your tiny fingers wrapped around my giant one, overwhelmed by the fact that you were mine and that I got to have you forever.

When you finally woke up, we went to the park and out to lunch and in the afternoon, you sat up by yourself and learned to say you were hungry and thirsty with your hands. You found words just as the sun was setting and spoke my name for the first time. I was positive nothing you ever did could bring me more joy until you teetered upright across the slippery kitchen tile in your striped footie pajamas.

Sunday was magical.

They said not to blink but I must have, because already it was Monday. In the morning we made waffles and I took you to preschool. You were brave and excited; you were ready. I wasn’t, but I pretended to be and you believed me. You trusted me. Why wouldn’t you? I worried and watched the clock and held my breath and kept myself busy by not driving by or calling the preschool. (Fine, I drove by a few times, but I never called.)

Were you eating? Were you napping? Were the teachers kind and patient? Did I remember to tell them you liked your back rubbed while you fell asleep? What if you cried? Or got sick or hurt? The not-knowing was excruciating but when I picked you up, only fifteen minutes early, you knocked me over with a smile and the bottlecap necklace you’d made for me and a story about a new friend, and I could breathe again.

Tuesday was a big day. You made a million more friends, got invited on a sleepover, skinned your knee, cut your own bangs, learned to write cursive and ride a bike. You went to school—big kid school—and I did drive by, but it was on my way to Trader Joe’s and I only slowed down a little. We played cards after you got home and ate dinner together and took turns saying the three best things about our days.

Your favorite part of Tuesday was when you got to count the stars in the hot tub with Dad before I gave you a bath and read you a book. We wrote each other quick love letters in the notebook you kept in your nightstand just for this purpose, and your eyelids got heavy. The note was supposed to be last but you begged me for one more book and a part of me thought I was supposed to say no—wasn’t it a parent’s job to say no?—but I didn’t because I wanted one more book, too.

“The moon is high, the sea is deep, they rock, and rock, and rock to sleep,” I read. And then we said our own silly thing, the one we said every night (even though we still don’t know how it started) about popsicles and cheese sticks that ends in a secret handshake. I told you I was tired and you agreed we should both go to sleep so I hugged you and kissed you and left you to dream.

When I wasn’t looking, Dad snuck up to your room and let you climb all over him and got you all riled up, and when I got mad you both giggled and rolled your eyes at me. I waited until it was quiet in there again and then I tiptoed in and wiped the hair from your face and kissed your forehead and whispered that I loved you more than anything in the whole world.

Did I ever tell you how much I loved Tuesday?

I embarrassed you on Wednesday. I checked in too many times, asked too many questions, told you that you couldn’t go even though everyone else was allowed to go, said something stupid in front of your friends. You stayed in your room while I devoured books—Untangled, The Blessing of a Skinned Knee, Queen Bees and Wannabes—to try to fix or at least understand the things I couldn’t. You were mad but when I knocked on your door, you let me in. I apologized and we both cried and you said you were sorry, too. You swore you forgave me and I believed you. Still, Wednesday was hard.

Thursday was busy. You went to a dance, kissed a boy, made a team, aced an essay, didn’t make a team, bombed a test, and broke up with your best friend. We got in a fight over something meaningless and said hurtful things to each other and then we made up and went to get pedicures. When the polish dried, I taught you how to drive a car and you drove away.

You came back on Friday, long enough to fill out some college applications and study for your physics test. You got a job and after your shift you went to the lake for a few hours before you had to pick up your friend from work and you wouldn’t be coming home afterward because you were meeting some people I didn’t know downtown and I probably shouldn’t wait up. I tried to wait up anyway but you stayed out so late that I had to set four alarms to be sure you made it home.

On Saturday you moved out. I watched while you packed your suitcases and said goodbye to your cat and your friends and your bedroom but I couldn’t process any of it. It wasn’t real. It was too soon. You were brave and you were ready. I was neither and lousy at pretending. You hugged me, hard, and told me you were scared but also excited and you’d be back so soon.

You weren’t mine and I didn’t get to have you forever after all. How had I gotten that so wrong?

Saturday broke me into pieces.

Today is Sunday again. I didn’t want to get out of bed but then you called. You had woken up early (by yourself!) and you’d gone to the gym and stocked your fridge with healthy groceries. You did all of these things without me. You’d been to this unbelievable place and done that exciting thing and you were laughing and happy even though you missed me, too. Tonight the world is almost tilted back into place, because I still have this weird and not altogether awful piece of you and because on Monday you’re coming home.

I can’t wait for Monday. It’s just a visit, you don’t live here anymore, even though I tell myself you do and always will. We’ll sip coffee and prosecco and remember when and watch old home movies and laugh until our faces hurt. You’ll teach me to make spring rolls and ask me for that enchilada recipe and tell me about the time you lied about how the living room lamp got broken. I’ll nag you to make your bed and you’ll remind me that you’re a grown-ass responsible adult and I’ll have to admit that you are.

We’ll talk about how special Tuesday was and how chaotic Thursday was and we’ll agree that week flew by in a blur. You’ll sleep in your old bed and when the house is quiet, I’ll slip into your room and wipe the hair from your face and kiss your forehead and whisper that I love you more than anything in the whole world.

I’ll will Monday to last forever, but it won’t.

On Tuesday you’ll leave again, because you have to and because you have important things to do, and my heart will ache with an indescribable mixture of pride and anguish. You’re confident and capable and you don’t need me anymore, at least the way you did last week, which was the goal all along.

I’ll always need you, Mama, you’ll insist when I cry into your hair, and I’ll tell you I’ll always need you, too. It will take a year and superhuman strength to peel my arms from you and let you go.

My heart in photo form.

I’ll wander around the too-clean, too-quiet house, bumping into your absence everywhere I turn until you text me to tell me you love me and you’re home safe. And even though it’s not my home or even our home but your own home that’s totally separate from mine, I’ll be relieved and grateful. I’ll text you back I love you more before I fall asleep counting the days until I get to see you again.

This post was not funny. This book is.