Green Waves

The other day, an oddly subdued and melancholy young woman I know explained she had just sent her only daughter off to kindergarten for the first time that morning. I shared with her the words of a very eloquent friend: friggin milestones test us! Or, as sometimes seems the case, milestones suck. 

With a wave of a chubby little hand, the newly independent five -year-old had given her unsuspecting mother a brief glimpse into the inevitable yet still unimaginable future. One day, if things go according to plan, that child will be able to stand on her own two feet for a lot longer than a few hours, sometimes even days or weeks. But for now, I thought the weepy mom's pity party seemed premature. She will still be enjoying milk and cookies with her daughter after school, will still tuck her in at night and touch her soft cheek and tell her how much she loves her, and, by mere virtue of her presence, she will still have the power to filter out all but the sweetest of dreams. Add to that her own wrinkle free face and still not saggy ass and her blissful unfamiliarity with waking up in the middle of the night soaked in a pool of her own sweat and I really couldn't see why she was so mopey. I'm ashamed to admit it but what I felt more than anything was envy and more than a healthy dose of pure loathing.

Last night, I parted ways with my youngest child on a steamy street corner in New Orleans. She and her roommate headed back to their dorm, I headed back to my hotel. We had spent the day unpacking and organizing and figuring out how to maximize every inch of space in her half of a very narrow room. As it turned out, for a change, I had miscalculated and she had been right. The clothing, the shoes, the toiletries, the boxes and bags of stuff I felt certain would never fit into the confines of her dorm room somehow fit with room to spare. Even the seven thick sweatshirts she will probably never remove from the drawer.

She knows she doesn't need the sweatshirts. Or the dozens of pairs of shoes. At least not in the traditional sense. But she is astute enough to know she does need those things if she is to turn this tiny half rectangle into "home." Living in a place for an extended period simply does not make it so. Only nine months ago, when we moved from a large suburban house to a small townhouse one suburb over, she wasted no time setting up her new room with her things, turning it into home. I did the same with the rest of the house. Nine months ago, though, the transition was smoother; our pillows moved, but the people -- and  the dog -- remained the same. For this move, she needed to bring in the big guns; not just the sweats and the shoes, but piles of photos documenting her journey so far. There is still some empty space on the walls, room for the photographic journey to continue.

Three kids, three sets of milestones, each one different from the others. But the last one always packs an extra punch. It conjures up memories of doing similar things at different times, always when I was younger. Having a baby at thirty-six was a lot different from having a baby at twenty-nine or thirty. Launching a child at fifty-four was a lot different from launching a child at forty-seven or forty-eight. And not just because I fell asleep on the trolley and missed my stop, not just because I fell flat on my face while trying to text my daughter and explain where I had ended up and why. I know from experience how quickly these four years will pass, and how few chances I have left to enjoy milk and cookies after school with my child. I know from experience that it doesn't matter so much where she goes to school or what classes she takes or even how much she studies. What matters is that she does it on her own terms, and stays safe and reasonably happy as she morphs into the adult she will become by the time she leaves this place. As inevitable and unimaginable as it seems.

I had painted my fingernails green for the move, in honor of the school colors. It seemed fitting that when I said goodbye I would be giving her a green wave, a nod to the school's sports teams. Yes, with a wave of my sea foam tipped hand, this disbelieving mother gave herself a brief glimpse into what is still, even the third time around, an unimaginable future.