is a red-winged blackbird in a thicket of cattails.
If I’m being honest with myself, there’s a reasonfor staying busy. Being preoccupied with other things means I don’t have to be preoccupied with my own baggage. I’m sick of myself, of my indecisiveness and mental whining. My daughter’s leaving the nest, as all daughters eventually do, and my job is to let her go and move on with my life. It should be a simple matter to set a goal for myself, one that doesn’t involve Molly, even indirectly. Maybe I don’t have a college degree, but I’m not stupid.
I know I have to figure out who I am again, now that I’m not Molly’s mom. Well-meaning friends tell me to go back to being the person I was before Molly. Am I that twentysomething woman who used to sleep late and smoke Virginia Slims and never felt the need to look at a clock?
That’s not me anymore. It can never be me again. I don’t want to go back to being that person who lived each day so thoughtlessly, spending the moments like nickels in a slot machine, as though she had an unending supply of time and could squander it any way she pleased.
Other friends remind me that my marriage moves to the front burner now. Dan and I will have to figure out how to be a childless couple again. What were we before we became Molly’s parents? Whatdid we used to talk about, dream about, laugh and cry about? A better stereo system, a bigger house, an extra week’s vacation from work? How could those things matter now?
It was Molly who showed us the things that matter most. They’re the moments that sneak up on you unexpectedly, when you’re barely paying attention. You’re going out to see if the mail has come, and you discover that your child has learned to ride a two-wheeler and is as thrilled about it as if she’s learned to fly. Or you uncrate the new refrigerator you scrimped and saved for, and she shows you that the best thing about the new appliance is the empty box.
Before Molly, what was it that mattered to Dan and me? When we were first married, he’d grab me the second he woke up each morning and say, “You’re here!” as if I were the answer to his dreams. I can’t remember when he stopped doing that. Granted, it would seem tedious and downright weird if he kept it up indefinitely, but there was a clear appeal in knowing exactly where I stood with him.
Inside the oval hoop is a swatch of my mother’s favorite cotton blouse, the one with tiny umbrellasprinted all over it. For some reason, I’m inspired to stitch a message: “Do the thing you fear.”
Not the thing your mother fears. The thing you fear. I hope Molly will understand the difference.
Something extraordinary flashes past my line of sight. “Molly, slow down,” I say. “Look over there.”
It’s a turnoff marked Leaning Tower of Pisa, Iowa.
“Let’s check it out,” I say.
Molly looks dubious. Her gaze flicks to the dashboard clock. I feel a twinge of annoyance at her eagerness to reach our ultimate destination. Can’t she slow down, just a little?
“You’re the one who wanted me to watch the scenery and chill,” I remind her. “We’re making good time,” I point out.
“All right. Let’s do it.”
We go take a look at the leaning tower, and it is exactly that. A water tower that has listed to one side. In the next big wind it could topple, explains a placard in the field beside it. We take pictures to email to Dan. We’ve been calling him to check in each day. The conversation is predictable—we’re to keep the tank full and check the oil and tirepressure at least once a day. We’re to take care of ourselves.
“See?” I try not to act too smug as we return to the car. “You learn something new every day.”
Molly decides to give me a turn at the wheel. She wants to phone Travis and she’s not allowed to do it while she’s driving.
“No freakin’ signal,” she says, scowling at the screen of her cell phone. “That’s lame.”
“You’ll
If I’m being honest with myself, there’s a reasonfor staying busy. Being preoccupied with other things means I don’t have to be preoccupied with my own baggage. I’m sick of myself, of my indecisiveness and mental whining. My daughter’s leaving the nest, as all daughters eventually do, and my job is to let her go and move on with my life. It should be a simple matter to set a goal for myself, one that doesn’t involve Molly, even indirectly. Maybe I don’t have a college degree, but I’m not stupid.
I know I have to figure out who I am again, now that I’m not Molly’s mom. Well-meaning friends tell me to go back to being the person I was before Molly. Am I that twentysomething woman who used to sleep late and smoke Virginia Slims and never felt the need to look at a clock?
That’s not me anymore. It can never be me again. I don’t want to go back to being that person who lived each day so thoughtlessly, spending the moments like nickels in a slot machine, as though she had an unending supply of time and could squander it any way she pleased.
Other friends remind me that my marriage moves to the front burner now. Dan and I will have to figure out how to be a childless couple again. What were we before we became Molly’s parents? Whatdid we used to talk about, dream about, laugh and cry about? A better stereo system, a bigger house, an extra week’s vacation from work? How could those things matter now?
It was Molly who showed us the things that matter most. They’re the moments that sneak up on you unexpectedly, when you’re barely paying attention. You’re going out to see if the mail has come, and you discover that your child has learned to ride a two-wheeler and is as thrilled about it as if she’s learned to fly. Or you uncrate the new refrigerator you scrimped and saved for, and she shows you that the best thing about the new appliance is the empty box.
Before Molly, what was it that mattered to Dan and me? When we were first married, he’d grab me the second he woke up each morning and say, “You’re here!” as if I were the answer to his dreams. I can’t remember when he stopped doing that. Granted, it would seem tedious and downright weird if he kept it up indefinitely, but there was a clear appeal in knowing exactly where I stood with him.
Inside the oval hoop is a swatch of my mother’s favorite cotton blouse, the one with tiny umbrellasprinted all over it. For some reason, I’m inspired to stitch a message: “Do the thing you fear.”
Not the thing your mother fears. The thing you fear. I hope Molly will understand the difference.
Something extraordinary flashes past my line of sight. “Molly, slow down,” I say. “Look over there.”
It’s a turnoff marked Leaning Tower of Pisa, Iowa.
“Let’s check it out,” I say.
Molly looks dubious. Her gaze flicks to the dashboard clock. I feel a twinge of annoyance at her eagerness to reach our ultimate destination. Can’t she slow down, just a little?
“You’re the one who wanted me to watch the scenery and chill,” I remind her. “We’re making good time,” I point out.
“All right. Let’s do it.”
We go take a look at the leaning tower, and it is exactly that. A water tower that has listed to one side. In the next big wind it could topple, explains a placard in the field beside it. We take pictures to email to Dan. We’ve been calling him to check in each day. The conversation is predictable—we’re to keep the tank full and check the oil and tirepressure at least once a day. We’re to take care of ourselves.
“See?” I try not to act too smug as we return to the car. “You learn something new every day.”
Molly decides to give me a turn at the wheel. She wants to phone Travis and she’s not allowed to do it while she’s driving.
“No freakin’ signal,” she says, scowling at the screen of her cell phone. “That’s lame.”
“You’ll
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