It’s A Good Thing

It’s a good thing we mostly don’t know how long the parting moment will last.

My daughter was going to study abroad for a semester.

Which turned into two, then three, and then four semesters.

And recently, a third year away has been decided upon. In a land far away.

It’s a good thing I didn’t know at the time, when I walked in what felt like completely the wrong direction: away from her to catch a plane home, every cell in my body screaming “What are you doing? You are supposed to be close to the one you love. Stop walking in the wrong direction! Turn around!!”

Had I known then that a semester would become three years,

I might not have been able to stomach that as well.

Heartache could have caved me in more.

Air may have flowed less easily in and out of my lungs.

Imagination would have cleansed the palette of the straightforward “what is” with all the “could be’s, should be’s, would be’s”. Angst borrowed from an unknown future.

Whereas now, I sit somewhat in awe, that we have done this.

We have existed so far apart for so long, and we are mostly ok.

We have grown into this. We have had time to get used to it. Time crept upon us instead of startling us in bright daylight with a big announcement.

We go days and weeks, yes, missing each other, but also: we are ok. We are well.

In fact, we are as close as ever, while miles apart.

There are moments in the night when it crashes over me, and the layers of “OK” that seem sincere enough most of the time, fracture, and the ‘missing my girl’ rolls over me with unexpected weight, a flood of tears. And then that passes, and I am back to ok, dancing the dance of belonging while apart, heart stretched across more miles than I care to count.

Being ok doesn’t change that I wish I could be right there. It also doesn’t change that I am thrilled she is continuing with this adventure and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

And that right there is the eternal mystery of parenthood: to love so much that freedom is part and parcel of the deal, and that even as we resist and lament it — this flying away — we also celebrate it and know: it is good. It is right. It is the way. And our heart muscles can handle this. Mostly anyways.

The term I most often encounter with this magnificent, crazy (who the f@#% thought this up?!) equation is “bittersweet”. So apt. Bitter: the taste you may want to spit out, but you know is good for you, healthy, especially for the liver. And sweet: the taste you crave, that comforts and soothes, but too much can give you a stomachache. The two together, juxtaposed, mixed. That’s it. It really is Bitter and Sweet together, giving rise to another flavour that has no name, but is felt across the world as mamas and papas release their little ones and entrust them to a wobbly and wonderful world. It is bittersweet. Hard and right. Heartbreaking and heart making.

And so it is a good thing we mostly don’t know…

When is the last night our wee one cuddles into us to sleep.

When is the final time they suckle at our breast, nurtured this directly and immediately.

When is the last time we hear them say, “Mummy, carry me”.

When is the last day they let us hold their hand in public (for a while at least).

When is the concluding drive to school for after that one, they drive themselves.

When the skipping turns to walking.

When the moving away turns to moved away and to moved out.

When your “Can I just have a minute to myself?!” turns to “When will I get to see you?!” (Both with a ? and an !)

Thank God we mostly don’t know. That way we get to ease into the future unknowingly, and once it has arrived, we realize:

the belonging didn’t leave.

It just changed shape.