Movin' On Up....

As my youngest child prepares to move into her first "real world" apartment and pay her own rent, I am confused. Even more confused than usual.

With a strange mix of excitement, relief, and melancholy on all sides, she will be moving out of my 87 year old mother's Brooklyn apartment, my childhood digs. For a couple of months, she has walked the same streets I used to walk, stood on the same dusty subway platforms, arrived home late at night through the same deserted lobby while my mother, her grandmother, lay half awake, waiting. In the mornings, she sips coffee at the same tiny round kitchen table where my brother and I used to sit across from each other reading the backs of our favorite cereal boxes, with an occasional break to launch a gratuitous insult.

For two brief months, we have all had at least one foot firmly planted somewhere familiar, with the other testing new waters. My mother was enjoying the rare treat of seeing one of her grandchildren on a daily basis, and relearning how to walk the fine line between parenting a child and enjoying the company of a fellow adult. She was struggling to balance the joy of the closeness with the annoyance at the intrusion. My daughter, at once appreciative and put upon, endured her own juggle. I worried from afar, tempted to intervene and micromanage with advice and assurances, knowing that silence was my best option. My mother marveled, regularly, at how wonderful and responsible her youngest granddaughter is, as if it had happened suddenly, certainly in spite of my parenting.

Next weekend, we all start a new chapter. For my daughter, it will be the official launch, different from the somewhat illusory independence she enjoyed at college. For my mother, it will be a return, yet again, to the comfort of life on her own terms, the rigid and unimpeded schedule she has relied upon for so long. As relieved as she is, her space will feel empty, at least for a while. For me, I will adjust to what it feels like not be anticipating the return of a child. It is time, I think, to finally get rid of the bulky bags of tee shirts and old clothes I have stubbornly clung to as reminders of their childhoods. It is time, I think, to clear out the closets and just tuck the memories away where they don't take up so much space.

A friend told me, recently, that she and her husband cracked open a special bottle of wine to celebrate a job well done when their last child went off the payroll. Three children, well-raised, well-educated, ready to make their mark. I, too, might crack open a special bottle of wine (I hardly need an excuse), but I like to think that though my job description might change, my work is never done.