I remember it like it was yesterday...bringing home our firstborn and walking through the door of our home, the place of comfort and familiarity.
But everything felt different. Everything looked different. The atmosphere was odd and the world was a foreign place. I wanted my Mommy. I needed direction, instructions, reassurance. It was a lonely island of you-and him-and her...Anna Marie.
I was a parent and nothing, ever, would be the same.
Seventeen years later, here I am once again, standing in the doorway with my firstborn, not knowing what to do or what the hell I've gotten myself into.
This time though, I'm standing on the inside of the threshold, about to watch my firstborn walk out of our life, and into her own. I need reassurance. The atmosphere is odd and everything feels different.
Senior year is about to start and I'm already drowning in my own tears, surprised by how hard it's hit me. I've started making a mental checklist, making sure we've taught her absolutely everything she needs to know to survive out there. Then I laugh at the absurdity for a split second until the worry hits that spot in my stomach again, and I'm gasping for air. Warm tears cannot be dammed behind the eyelashes. This is not like me, I think. 'What is wrong with you?!?' An imaginary wind chills any confidence I have had in my parenting skills. All seems wrong and lost on this island. This freaking mother-island.
I replay in my head a memory that pops up from way back in my sub-conscious, of the day Gerald left for college...
Gerald's Mom standing at the kitchen sink, shoulders slumped and shaking, trying to stifle the sobs and peel potatoes for dinner. I watched her from behind not knowing what to do or say (I was a slight mess myself). Now I know what she knew. I feel what she felt. I can only imagine my Mom doing the same when I left a year later.
Is this part of the curse? That the labor pains never really end? You feel a longing in your womb, your breast, your every fiber for that little bundle of warmth that scared the living crap out of you; that pulled you out of narcissism and into sacrifice; that made you realize just how short life is; that makes you brave and a complete mess at the same time; that makes you long for that child even when they're right next to you still.
In my mind's eye, I see the famous Sistine Chapel painting of Adam reaching out to touch just the tip of God's finger. I focus on the hands, everything else a blur. I'm reaching for one small touch so I can hang on one more minute. I'm rooting for myself, 'Reeeach! you can do it!' And yet, I know I cannot, because she has wings, the wings I've groomed everyday for the past seventeen years.
