If you love something...let it go (and other stupid sayings)

Was it really less than two weeks ago when I was screaming like a lunatic at Sydney for leaving her bobby pins all over the house? And now she's living in San Diego and I'm randomly bursting into tears whenever I find one of her leftover half-filled water bottles in random corners. I spent all week actively avoiding the coffee stain she left (as usual) by the keurig machine; finally washing it away today as tears streamed down my face.

This was not my finest hour. Apparently, I was not destined to play the part of the benevolent matriarch, bestowing valuable wisdom to my nestlings as I encouraged them to spread their wings and fly. Instead, I chased after them with scissors, determined to trim their flight feathers and ground their flight. It was June Cleaver meets Psycho.

Savannah, to her credit, left in increments. A summer in Alaska. A college apartment less than an hour away. Then Connecticut where I quickly learned that a seven hour drive is NOTHING when you want to see your firstborn. But suddenly, from out of nowhere , San Diego. And this time, she was taking my baby with her.

For days, I kept the news to myself. I didn't tell anyone because I COULDN'T tell anyone. And when I did, tentatively, start telling those closest to me, I quickly realized that I needed to provide them with a helpful script. I tested it out on my friend Geri first:

Me: I am about to tell you something and I need you to respond in one of two possible ways. Option One is where I tell you my news and you say,"Wow! That's so interesting! Here's a Pepsi." Option Two is where you respond, "How exciting! Here's a Snickers bar." I'm not picky. It could also be a Twix or a Peppermint Patty. In a pinch, I'd take a Kit Kat. Also, if we weren't in school, you could substitute the Pepsi for a margarita. Are you ready?

Geri nodded.

Choking back sobs, I told her and she stared at me in silence. After a minute, I asked, "Aren't you going to say something?" "I don't know what to say," she exclaimed. "I gave you a script," I shouted. "All I have is Orange Crush," she said sadly, pushing the half-empty bottle toward me.

The script protected me (and others). Helpful people would try to bolster my spirits by saying how proud I must be of my girls (I am), how brave and adventurous they were (I agree), and how every successful parent must inevitably face the moment where their offspring moves away (No shit...oops, sorry). These well-intended phrases provoked in me an unspeakable and murderous rage where I would feel the need to verbally (or even physically) eviscerate the speaker.

Others would look upon me with soft, sad, compassionate eyes. Offer a gentle touch to my arm or shoulder. Rub my back. Take my hand. A warm hug. Trigger the water-works. And add more fuel to my fire.

Savannah was very pragmatic about the move. "Mom, it's a five hour flight. That's less time than it took to drive to Connecticut." But it didn't help. It was the wrong ocean. Wrong timezone. I now had to depend on a middleman to get me to my babies. As I cried into my pillow into the wee hours, I tried to have a tough talk with myself. "For pete's sake, Amy," I scolded, "It's not death. It's just California." Unfortunately, I don't have a great deal of respect for the not-so Golden State. San Diego has more fleas per capita than any other U.S. city. Gas in California is eighty cents higher than the rest of the nation. We all know that it's going to flop off into the Pacific any second. Why would anyone want to live there?

4:30 in the morning came much too quickly. Kisses delivered. Vehicles loaded up with those I love the most. I stood by the stop sign at the end of our road, sending a not-so-subliminal message as I waved at the headlights as they disappeared into the darkness. It was then that I felt it. The Shift. I had once been hauling something heavy in my truck and a spring had disengaged, causing the back-end to shift alarmingly. I felt that now. My role as a mother, my very identity, just shifted. I stumbled into the house, scrambling for my ringing cellphone. From the time they were little, every family vacation began with Brad annoying us as he played Willie Nelson's "On the Road Again." And now that song was playing in my ear, with Sydney and Savannah singing along. My legs could no longer hold me and I sank to the dining room floor and gasped the lyrics along with them. "We love you," they shouted.

 I love you, too.


More stupid sayings:


 “Some of us think holding on makes us strong, but sometimes it is letting go.”
– Herman Hesse

“Courage is the power to let go of the familiar.”– Raymond Lindquist