The one thing I haven’t done since returning to Kansas a week ago is to see my daughter, Emery, and hang out with her, catching up face-to-face. She doesn’t live here anymore. I should know that. I helped box up belongings and distributed them to Goodwill, my basement, and a moving truck parked in their driveway on what I swear was the hottest, most humid day that Kansas has ever seen in May. The remaining items were then stuffed into my car and driven to Ft Collins, Colorado, where I then helped unload, unpack, and empty the contents into cupboards, shelves, and closets. I know which drawer her orange-handled carrot peeler is in, but I keep forgetting that she and her husband, Miles, have moved.
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| On the Colorado side of the 657 mile journey… |
To understand where I am now, I have to go back several years to when I was first divorced. My son, Grant, was a senior in high school, and my daughter, Emery, was a freshman. My oldest son, Thomas, was already in college. Although Grant was a part of my transition, it was after that first year when I was no longer coasting on the effects of adrenaline and making up my life a day at a time, when the real work began. It was with Emery that I truly cut my teeth with independence and started to figure out exactly who I was and what I was supposed to be doing.
I had already done what I thought was the hard part, but would later learn that it wasn’t the jumping off the proverbial cliff that was the most challenging, but rather, my anticipation of growing the wings I would need for a safe landing. That’s what kept me up at night. Selfishly, I was grateful not to have to be alone when I had to go through the crises that seemed to come with regularity, including an exploding water pump in the basement and the bird’s nest in the porch light that caught fire, ending in a 911 call. Although we were both treading in new waters and had no idea what we were doing, we had each other, and not knowing feels a whole lot better when you have someone sitting next to you. Emery showed me what grace under fire looked like and, unbeknownst to her, I’m sure, became my teacher. She was in good company with Lorelei Gilmore, from The Gilmore Girls.
Emery and I loved The Gilmore Girls and would tune in whenever it was on. It was entertainment for Emery, but far more for me. I watched the show while learning to be a divorced Mom to a teenage girl. Lorelei Gilmore helped me find the confidence I needed to navigate my way in this new role, and she made me feel less alone in the journey.
We (my television mom friend, Lorelei, and I) were on the same schedule, with daughters who would be flying the nest at the same time. I watched with anticipation, excitement, and a deep-seated sadness as we both seemed to be marking days at the same time and with the same speed. I have to think that Emery knew this, as we sat next to each other on the couch every Sunday night with plates of roasted Brussels sprouts in our laps. I am still brought to tears when I hear Carol King’s song, “Where You Lead” (the show’s lead-in song), because of the many memories it conjures up. I knew what was going to happen in the show because it was inevitable, and the same would happen in my life. The daughter goes to college. She leaves the nest.
In the spring of Emery’s junior year, we got to enjoy several weeks of watching the process of “leaving the nest,” when a pair of cardinals nested in a tree outside our kitchen window. Not even the Gilmore girls witnessed the incredible course of events that unfolded in the weeks to come (that we knew of…), although we both agreed it would have been a great storyline for the show. We went from watching mom sitting on the eggs, to seeing the babies peck their way out of the tiny shells, then watched as dad would forage for food and bring it back to the mom, who would then feed her babies. We were awed by the beauty of watching the two birds turn into a family with roles that seemed all too familiar to us. We watched from our own perch on the kitchen floor, hunched down below the windowsill, barely breathing, so as not to frighten them. It became our TV, and for me, another role model to learn from.
We followed them, felt connected to them, and I learned while I watched. It wasn’t long before we watched the papa bird begin to teach the babies how to fly by flying to a nearby branch, then looking back at the nest of baby birds and whistling. We translated the whistle to, “Watch me and then do what I do.” And eventually, they did. Emery and I beamed with maternal joy as we watched what were eggs in a nest a few weeks ago become baby birds who were finding their independence while making their maiden flight to a nearby branch. We witnessed as they practiced the short flight over and over again, always with a safe return to the comforts of the nest and mom.
A few days later, the babies had all flown the nest. We assumed they were filled with the excitement of feeling their independence (our conclusions as two people who do not claim roles as ornithologists). Emery and I had a high school graduation to attend, so we made one last look at the nest before leaving the house. It was empty of its babies. The sequence of events felt particularly poignant given the timing of our departure for high school graduation. I had been witnessing my own reality of a soon-to-be-empty nest in the truest sense of the word. A metaphor had become our real-life reality.
When we got home a few hours later, we were surprised by our discovery. Lo and behold, all the babies had returned home from their various homes on branches in nearby trees. I couldn’t help but smile and felt a massive sense of relief for the mama.I thought about the series of events with the family of cardinals while on the road to Ft. Collins, Colorado, from Leawood, Kansas, in my overly loaded car. Whether it was 657 miles west on I-70 or from one tree to the next in my back yard, it was all the same thing from the viewpoint of a mom….leaving the nest, the town, the state. While I followed Emery’s car for every one of those 657 miles, I thought about the last time I had followed her on the highway, both of us with overloaded cars, when I moved her into her dorm at the University of Kansas. I worried about her and how she’d do with this next big transition. Or so I told myself. I was really worried about myself and how I would handle this next big transition. There was comfort, both times, in being able to take refuge in the comfort of being alone in my car. I could cry.
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| Again, I followed my daughter down the highway as she tested her wings – this time with Miles |
I’m not expecting Emery to return to my nest, but I know I’ve given her an internal compass that will always point her home. I also gave her an actual compass, along with a few other metaphorical gifts for her high school graduation. When I was typing the letter that went into the box, I envisioned her home as always being where I was and where she had come from, because that was the only reference I knew at the time. But in my car, driving west to Colorado, I knew that the compass, although oriented to “home,” was now pointing her to the mountains of Colorado, where she has found her next home with her husband, Miles. Still, she will always carry with her the internal compass that will always point her home, whether to an actual physical location or to a feeling she holds in her heart.
My heart has stretched across the 657-mile stretch of I-70 from Leawood, Kansas, to Ft Collins, Colorado. I feel sad, and sometimes that sadness comes with tears, but I’m with a very full heart that knows that, although as parents we strive to give our children both wings and roots, it is in their flying that they will truly learn about life. As you fly, Emery, I learn from you, and in the process, we both grow.
And to you, Emery, you will not have an easier houseguest. I know where everything in your kitchen is, as I put it there—second drawer to the right of the stove for the orange-handled carrot peeler.