Goodbye - Hello

Accepted

Maddy understandably decided she wasn't much into me blogging about her life, afterall.  But she did approve the following announcement:  she's been accepted to several places, most notably Western Washington University in Bellingham.  Laurie's favorite acceptance is Savannah School of Art & Design.  And they're both deliriously happy.

We're heading back to Bellingham in April for the official "accepted freshman" weekend, when her other choices are also clear, and then she'll decide. 

I'm still writing about this year, stuffed appropriately in my bedside journal.  When she's in her 20's or 40's or, if she happens to ask, I'll wrap it in satin and pass her story back to her.

Doing Our Own Thing

Maddy & I have been doing our own things the last two weeks.  I'd say I'm really enjoying this phase, but, truthfully, I've loved every phase of parenting, each more compelling than the last.  Infant to toddler, diapers to her own wildly mismatched outfits, dress-up to Barbies to school dances ... just a blink ago she required the structures of mid-adolescence -- curfews, "What are you doing and who's going with you?" and house rules intended to sustain adult authority and parental protection.  I even got into being the most annoying mom in the world.  

Now we've landed on less hands-on parenting but more mutual respect, and I'm loving these deeper shores, too.

The new transition means we text each other our whereabouts rather than ask permission (her) or feel guilty when extending a business trip to play (me).  She goes with her friends to out-of-town concerts, tours UNC-Asheville alone with Lou and Laurie, checks into a Winston hotel with three friends ("Mom, we had to shop since the mall was right next door, and the jeans were such a good deal ...") and then next morning they get themselves to an excellent CapEd's SAT Boot Camp.  Even when we fight -- and we are fiery screamers -- we both know when to retreat, laughing civilly through our cell phones when face-to-face embers still smolder.

Last week while I was in California Maddy took the SAT, arranged letters of rec, drafted application essays, and painted the bathroom.  (John keeps our homefires ablaze and our kids blissfully humming when I'm out of town, and I hope he knows I am the most grateful wife on the planet.)  Tonight she made a 3-course dinner merely because she was first to reach the kitchen.  When John and I go to Atlanta next weekend she'll take the dogs for a run and make sure her inevitable party doesn't attract the cops.  

This is a cool phase, even with that party thing.

I do get wistful remembering a passel of cherry-cheeked kids on those luxurious snow days when I was still an ever-present mom.  They'd sled and shriek for hours, speeding furiously all the way down to our distant mailbox if the snow was just right. I'd hand out wool socks and prepare hot-chocolate warmth and bottomless pizza, lugging the big tv into the living room so they could watch a roaring fire alongside Julia Roberts (for the zillionth time).  I loved those days something fierce, even mopping up the puddle of snow gear abandoned by the front door.

But I feel a holy passage as I migrate from life director to awed witness of an unfolding adult.  My daughter is an amazing person, and this phase offers a miraculous glimpse from a brand new perspective.

Best Friends

Debbie & I met at preschool orientation, my first week in town.  She and another friend had schemed to find a new friend and seems I was the pick (Nancy liked my earrings; Debbie didn't like my hair but thought I was brave to wear it.)  Maddy and Laurie hated each other, but we forced them together anyway. I still remember the first play date, my 3-year-old climbing all over Debbie's kitchen counter while we baked cookies.  Debbie took an aggravating zillion years to make the perfect sandwiches, I recall, but I've since relied on her zen.  I used to feed them in the bathtub, which they loved and Debbie found bizarre, but she learned to accept, eventually maybe appreciate my preference for fun first.  

Our only children learned to love someone else so much they changed themselves for the better. 

Maddy's the serious powerhouse, fearless, compelling, fun, blunt, in-charge, doesn't much know or care what anybody thinks.  Laurie's the opposite, funny, sweet, quiet, always sensitive to the needs and feelings of others.  Maddy yells; Laurie's passive-aggressive.  Maddy's always moving, doing, dancing, was handy with an electric drill and paint rollers at far too young an age.  Laurie loves to read, talk, and lounge.  

Left unchecked Maddy woulda been that bossy, manipulative, power-hungry girl we protect our children from.  And Laurie never woulda left the house.  

They loved each other early, but they took much longer to navigate those differences successfully.  Most of the time they played together great.  But eventually Maddy would rev up, get more and more controlling and Laurie would shrink.  When Laurie reached her fill she would refuse to have anything to do with Maddy, who'd get devastated. Round & round they'd go, Debbie and I rescuing less and less as they got older.

In the end Laurie taught Maddy how to add nice, sensitive, and accommodating to her array of stengths.  And Maddy taught Laurie to go out there and be herself with confidence.  We count on Maddy to organize, and Laurie keeps us laughing.

All of which come in handy 15 years later as we sit at that same kitchen counter anticipating their futures.

Roadtrip Zen

Maddy felt worse so we cancelled the remaining trips to Rhode Island and Vermont and headed home from Hartford early Friday morning.  She spread out across the back seat, sleeping and watching movies while I drove uneventful, I-84 west across New York and then straight down I-81, through Pennsylvania, Maryland, West Virginia, Virginia, and Tennessee.  Some crap food, an hilarious moment running out of gas (relishing my brand new Rav4 I just forgot to eye the gauge. I was delighted to learn AAA would rescue me from such idiocy.  Maddy did several exasperated eye-rolls, but I spied a smile.)  

It was a gorgeous blue-sky day, without agenda or impediment, just settled in an anciently familiar road trip zen.  Long drives offer me unparalleled silence, a chance to think or not think, to count my life's blessings, glance softly at the scenery, or indulgently repeat my favorite song or book excerpt over and over again.  Maddy's always in the back, with her blanket & pillow, earphones blaring Little Mermaid or Seinfeld or the newest Radiohead.  At dusk we ate meatloaf, green beans, and fresh berry pie at the Mountain View restaurant and watched the almost-full moon rise up over the back hill.  It carried us along the rest of the way, big and white across the indigo sky, and made the 14 hours fly effortlessly by. Finally home, John, Alden, and the dogs greeted us so boisterously I almost forgot my looming sense that these road trips are soon to end.

Truth is, my heart will shatter the day my daughter leaves home.  But I'm assuming the shards will reshape into a glorious new sculpture.

First Day Senior Year

My 17-year old daughter, Maddy, started her senior year of high school today.  No big deal logistics-wise:  familiar teachers, friends, social gig, floorplan ... she can park her little red CRV in the senior lot ... bought her own school supplies ... 1st day outfit easily selected.  After three years she knows the drill.  My entire contribution took about five minutes -- packed her lunch, made her a smoothie to sip through morning classes, stowed them in her front seat as she got herself effortlessly out the door.

But the significance hasn't escaped us, even if we've let familiar routines keep it at bay.  My only child begins her last year at home, and we know it'll mean something.  Even if we're not sure what.