September 23, 2024 by Amy
Two-Thirds Birds
After several weeks of family members, friends, and colleagues approaching me cautiously with wide eyes and gentle demeanors, grasping me softly by the arm, leaning in, and whispering, “How are you doing? Are you okay?” I think it’s time to come clean.
To recap: We moved our child into her dorm in southern California, flew to Mexico for a week, worked for four days, flew to Florida for a family event for a weekend, flew home, got sick with Covid, and recovered.
And we are, well…thriving. Covid notwithstanding.
Was it difficult to leave her? Yes, it was. That part felt as though someone was tearing a limb from my body, or actively disconnecting one of those important pipes that pumps blood into my heart. I cried most of that night in our now oddly-empty hotel room, and woke up sobbing. I wasn’t sure I would survive. “How do people do this,” I whined. M gave me hugs and patted my back.
And then I repacked my bag and we took a Lyft to the airport and flew to Los Cabos. It’s really hard to cry while draped over the edge of an infinity pool overlooking the beach, especially when Pedro is coming by every so often to refresh my drink. Since it was an adults-only resort, there were no children to remind me that mine is technically no longer residing with me. By 24 hours after drop-off, I was good. Maybe it was the margaritas?
We flew home and discovered that our nest is most certainly not empty. There were three birds living in it, and now there are two birds. And a dog. Two birds+dog is not empty. It’s two-thirds birds. A majority, if you will. And, to be perfectly honest, these two birds are settling into the new normal quite nicely.
For one, the house stays picked up. I’m not tripping over multiple backpacks every day just to pass by the kitchen. Or a mound of shoes in the mudroom that never could find their way into the conveniently stationed shoe racks. There is far less long hair floating around. (Sherman McCoy the Roomba is also celebrating. Can a robot vacuum sigh contentedly? I swear I heard him do that.) My end tables are no longer adorned with empty granola bar wrappers.
Two: Laundry gets done in half a day, partly because I’m not washing, drying, and folding 18 sweatshirts a week even in 100+ degree weather.
Three: I am the sole user of my car. This might be the biggest perk. The temperature is always where I want it, my phone is the only one connecting to Bluetooth, and there are no empty granola wrappers adorning the door pockets. I can go where I want, when I want, and my car is always waiting for me when I’m finished. Hallelujah hallelujah amen.
It also helps that I was wise enough to marry my best friend almost 27 years ago. It’s not only easy to hang out with this guy, it’s fun. He still makes me laugh. He still surprises me. We do so much together now that we didn’t have time for before. Errands like running to Costco and ALDI feel like a day date. (Granted, the day date feeling is magnified by picking up a Starbies on the way.) We are, quite simply, enjoying the hell out of each other, including the free-form conversations about the detritus of life that can take place organically because “little ears” aren’t listening.
I have also found that I enjoy going to author talks and reading books and magazines and spending time writing and learning how to paint watercolors more than sitting on gym bleachers for three-plus hours watching a volleyball team lose yet again in five full sets while wondering if my crockpot chicken dinner is turning to goo since it’s been in there for 14 hours. I find myself seeking and finding photographs again, in all the world around me. (Cover image is dew dripping off a mailbox while the sun rises, discovered on one of the morning walks I enjoy with my husband every day now.) While I adored every moment of watching our girl compete, that time has passed and I’m not going to be sad that I get to do what I want now. (I picked up a Poets & Writers magazine off the end table Saturday thinking, “I can finally read this!” I had been diligently saving it because it features an interview with Clint Smith, one of my favorite writers. I started reading the first article and thought, “Wait, something’s off.” I flipped back to the cover to find Clint gazing placidly at me after waiting patiently for…wait for it…three years. It’s the July/August 2021 issue.)
I am reinvigorated at work. “Yes, I’ll take the early morning photo shoot!” I exclaim. “I can stay late for the board meeting…no conflicts!” I’m no longer bound to the schedule of an athletic, socially-active teenager nor torn between my child and my career. When you want to go to both the lacrosse game AND the board meeting, there’s internal struggle. Either way, you feel like you’re missing out. Anyone who tells you that working parents “can have it all” are full of shit. No fucking way. The sacrifices are worth it, to be sure, but they are sacrifices nonetheless.
Don’t be fooled. My season of parenthood is not over, by any stretch. I just dropped $46.85 at the U.S. Post Office to ship a sleeping bag, winter coat, gloves, and other assorted sundries to California so my girl can go launch a rocket in the desert next month. I routinely field calls and texts like, “I keep waking up with a sore throat but I’m fine within an hour, what should I do?” and “What is bone broth?” and “I think this guy was hitting on me; how do I know for sure?” (He was. They always are.) She has also discovered that fraternity houses smell bad and the floors are sticky, and that living in a suite with seven other girls can result in some friction. (They reached the Passive-Aggressive Post-It Note Stage last week, over messy bathrooms, and we just sit here and laugh and laugh. Congrats, kid. You just leveled up.) (For the record, she’s neutral. She’s Switzerland. She’s leaving neither the mess nor the notes, but watching it all play out like a social experiment.)
It’s a different sort of parent stress being 1,500 miles away from her. Of course I worry about her. But she’s got a good head on her shoulders and she knows how to use it, so I’m not overwrought. Hell, I wouldn’t even say I’m wrought. This is, after all, what we’ve been working toward for 18+ years. This was the end game, the goal. I cannot mourn the fact that we achieved what we set out to do. I can only celebrate the accomplishment. It helps that she is insanely happy, having found her home away from home complete with good friends, decent food, and classes that challenge and motivate her, along with a group of like-minded nerds in the USC Rocket Propulsion Lab—steely-eyed missile people, the lot of them. Hearing her laugh fills in any cracks that might be left in my heart from her departure.
All in all, the four of us are doing great. She’s thriving, we’re having fun, and Truman doesn’t really care who is around so long as someone is feeding him treats.
So, yes. I am fine. Thank you for asking.
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