It's been two years since I last posted here--two years in which things changed and changed again and the ups and downs involved weren't my story to share (though my story was shaped by them).
As it is inclined to do, the sun slowly rose again, life moved forward, and gathered momentum. And now, both suddenly and not, Tori is getting the keys to her own apartment tomorrow.
If you've read this blog, or my
personal blog, you know that watching her crest new hills is one of my favorite things. She was nervous and excited as she filled out the application and gave it to me to double-check (though she really didn't need any help). She waited for five days and then shouted from upstairs that she'd gotten the apartment, appearing in the living room seconds later to ask me to go with her to buy a money order for the deposit. Then, when she had the money order in hand, she dropped me off at home before she went to make the payment, 'cause she's a grownup.
She was happy and confident and fairly wiggling with excitement and it was infectious. Sure, those little things were nagging in the back of my mind, how I'd never again be downstairs working or cleaning or playing with the dogs and hear her start playing her guitar upstairs, or belting out a song from
Wicked or
Into the Woods. Sure, there have been flashes when she ran down the stairs to show me a new
nail design or share a bit of celebrity news and it crossed my mind that those days would be over in a matter of weeks, then days.
But, there's nothing better than watching your child in her own element, stretching her wings, reaching for what she wants and pulling it down from the sky.
Plus, we're getting the best of both worlds--a sort of cheat that most people facing an empty nest don't get (and the reason I'm still blogging on this "sporadically occupied" site): she's moving into an apartment on my block. She'll have her own space, decor, privacy, bills, and autonomy but, to the degree we choose (read: she chooses) we can still walk the dogs together, make coffee runs together...hell, if the new nail design is exciting enough, she can run across the lawn to show it to me instead of down the stairs. We can still shop for flowers and plant our gardens together.
These things will happen less often, of course. It will have to be a conscious choice, when one of us is walking a dog, to text the other or knock on the door and say, "Do you want to come along?" rather than a question we ask automatically as one of us gets up to take them. That won't always happen. It will likely taper off over time. But the transition will be more gradual, more natural, than if she were moving out of state, or even across town. And, we'll always have the option. That "last chance" feeling of the final days of summer vacation doesn't apply.
When we want to go ice skating together mid-day, we can meet in the driveway and ride together as easily as ever. When we want to work on a children's book or promoting her business or she's doing a project for me, one or the other of us can make the commute in 60 seconds. Possibly in our pajamas.
In short, it's all good. Really, truly. I think when I'm walking the dogs and see her new apartment, I'm as excited as she is. I know that the day I look out the window and catch a glimpse of her in her own life, tending her garden or reading in her yard or playing with her dog, it will fill me with a joy I've only ever known when I saw her shining and happy in her element.
And then, this afternoon--almost exactly 24 hours before she's to pick up her keys--I walked up the stairs and saw this:
And suddenly it hit me that this was the last of the thousands of times I've come upon my baby sleeping in my house, the last time I'd see her at rest in her room in the space I found and maintained for her, on furniture I bought her, among things she'd accumulated in our lives together. My heart broke wide open as a cascade of images flashed through my mind at lightning speed: her sleeping face as a toddler in my bed; looking in on her at night in elementary school, when she was so small that she still slept in a toddler bed and her hair nearly reached her elbows; looking over at her sleeping in the car on long cross-country drives; touching her head gently when she was sick and sleeping during the day; peeking into her room in the morning to see whether she was awake yet.
For a moment, it seemed as if everything important in the world was changing. I slipped back downstairs to grab my phone and take her picture, the last time I'd stumble upon sleeping beauty in my house, and came back down with tears in my eyes.
20 minutes later, her boyfriend came in. She came down the stairs. They worked on her car. She came back in laughing. And nothing had changed at all.
I suspect this cycle will repeat many times in the days ahead.
