|
Home Education Magazine
May-June 2004 - Articles and Columns
Changing Lives - Nancy Friedland
Something's missing. It's unsettling, and I can't quite get used to it. My first child has left home. I wander into her bedroom occasionally, wondering if she really is gone. My husband got up in the middle of the night, and was halfway down the stairs to check before he realized he'd only dreamt that she was back.
Marina left behind Rapunzel, the doll my mother gave her when she was five, the doll who, even until the day she left, slept in or near her bed. Rapunzel's hair--what's left of it--is matted, and her stuffed body grubby from loving hands, but the expectant look on her face is still there.
Marina's absence is sad and bewildering, as if she's been torn from us suddenly after a lifetime of homeschooling. It's as if she woke up one day and said, "I'm out of here." But really it was a slow process. Marina went away for weekends, then for weeks at a time, and then off for several months of travel, visiting homeschooling friends around the country--kids she'd met at various state conferences, campouts and camp. We used that time to get used to the empty room, the empty chair, the missing conversations, the missing kiss goodnight. I guess we were both practicing how to separate.
Marina was consciously busy separating from us, even when she was still home this past year. She kept more and more to herself, as if gathering up strength and steam for the inevitable parting. She worked at her job longer hours, spent more time out than in, and more time on the computer and phone. As she matured, Marina became more roommate than daughter. We had delightful conversations; she responded in more mature ways to the challenges of family living. Sometimes she was just a bad roommate, leaving her messes for others to clean up. She wanted to be treated like an adult, but wanted to ignore the dishes that piled up for three days. She wanted to live her own life, but neglected to see the overflowing wastebasket. She had different standards with regard to order and tidiness. I longed for her to stay, yet at the same time relished the thought of one less messy teen around, and less conflict in my life.
During the last days, I mourned Marina's leaving, and hovered nearby for last embraces, a shared thought, a chance to help out. "I'm not dying you know!" she said, trying to shrug off the sadness, both her own and ours. In some ways I thought her leaving wouldn't be too hard, that her gradual drawing away meant we would get used to her absence. In fact this move feels different from her extended travels, and it's not just that her room is spotless. Knowing this leaving the nest could be permanent, and hearing her call somewhere else "home" feels distressing, like a piece has been torn from me. There is a finality here that we didn't experience when she traveled for a weekend, a month, four months. I'm mourning a passing.
But then I remember so clearly being eighteen, when I knew that my family was just not my focus of affection and interest anymore. My parents were an afterthought, worth an occasional phone call. I missed the satisfying meals my mother cooked, the view of the neighborhood from my bedroom window. But my heart was no longer there. My attention had reached out, a flower to the sun. I don't know if that's how my daughter feels, and I hesitate to attribute feelings to her that really are my own. I've been wrong so many times before. Homeschooling has certainly given us a closer relationship than the one I had with my parents. It's just that right now her heart and her future are with her friends. I keep telling myself, isn't this what we want for our children? Yet, in spite of what my head says, it's painful. Now I'm that afterthought, and it feels lonely. I know, certainly, she'll never feel as strongly about us, and home.
It has also has been a time to look back on 18 years of parenting and homeschooling to wonder about all the mistakes I made--all the not-so-good moments--all the times I wished I had more time for myself or wished my kids would grow up faster. Now suddenly I'm part of that generation that wants to slow the clock down, move time backwards, re-live all those sweeter moments. The photo albums come out. I bring back the old stories. How did I get old?
The issues pile up, from simply missing my sweet daughter to what am I going to do with the next phase of my life. Children leaving is not as simple as packing some boxes, writing them a check and waving a tearful goodbye at the train station. The emotions and the regrets layer, one on top of the next. More often than not, I'd rather not sort out the details.
Now the days of sadness grow further apart. Friends are beginning to face the same issues, and others have done this before me. My head tells me to count my blessings and look forward to this next phase of my life. But in my heart the sadness lingers, hovers. Poking it like a sore tooth, I nonetheless move on.
© 2004 Nancy Friedland
Top
May-June 2004 - Articles and Columns
HEM General Information
Subscribe to HEM
|
