The ties that bind. Cutting the umbilical cord and the apron strings. We've all heard the cliches before, but no one tells you just how much all of these things hurt.
We've just returned from taking The Kid back to university in Ottawa. (I must start calling her something else...she clearly isn't a "kid" anymore). We spent an entire week, putting finishing touches on her townhouse. We painted her room, hung pictures, weeded, painted anything that didn't move, cleaned and made it a home. We had fun! We worked like dogs, but it was filled with joking around, painting silly pictures on the walls before the real work started, painting each other and most importantly, lots of love.
It seems like yesterday that we brought her home from the hospital. No instructions on how to deal with this addition to our family. Trial and error. And we did make some mistakes. Nothing drastic and to her credit, she turned out amazingly well, in spite of what we may have done. When we took her to university last year, I was a mess. Leaving her in a dorm room, in a strange city, just about did me in. I thought this year would be easier. OK, so I only cried for about half an hour as we drove away. Last year it was a couple of days. That's progress, no?
The first day at Tiny Kingdom was easy. She didn't know what she was in for. The second day? Not so much. She clung to my legs and begged me not to go. I gently pried her from my knees and promised that I'd be back when the "big hand and the small hand" on the clock were at the top. When I came back to get her, there she was, sitting on a small stool, in front of the clock, staring up, waiting for those two hands to meet. My heart broke in pieces. It took a few more days, but she stopped waiting for noon to come and me along with it. The first cut.
Her first day at elementary school was much the same. Junior kindergarten would be from 9 to 3:30 and there would be no big-hand/small-hand noon pick up. After the first couple of days, she said to me "I've had enough". This is where backbone comes in. You don't give in and a little bit more of your heart chips away. You feel as guilty as hell and just want to wrap her in your arms and sit down with a copy of "I'll Love You Forever" and to hell with education. After a week of JK, I was once again relegated to second place. The second cut.
Fast forward 10 years to high school. Believe me when I say "fast". Not even a backward glance. The third cut.
Which takes us to last year and her first year at Carleton. As we packed up two cars to head for residence, I had waves of melancholy, but they were usually overpowered by the excitement of what was to come for her. As we drove up to her res, a hoard of second year+ "facils" descended upon our cars, hooting and hollering, "welcome to Carleton", "woo hoo", and then literally moving her in. They all grabbed her stuff and proceeded to leave us empty handed as they transported her things to her dorm room. Exciting and fun. Just a bit of topical anaesthetic to dull what was to come. We spent 3 days there, buying stuff for her room, setting up their kitchen, making her part of the room "hers". Then came the time to leave. Having a heart transplant can't be as bad as what I was feeling. As we drove away from her, we both held it back, she standing in front of her res door with tears in her eyes, me waving with a phony smile on my face. As we rounded the corner, out of her sight, the tears flowed. And flowed. And flowed. For days. Now I am really bleeding. All of the little cuts have turned into a gaping wound.
Now she's in a house with two other, fantastic roomies and they will have a blast. Three young women with so much to experience. Our Girl (that's better), who is now a Frosh Leader, said goodbye to us on the grounds of the university . In that moment, she was not a second year university student, but that little girl at Tiny Kingdom. Tears in her eyes, tremble in her voice, we hugged, kissed, did the phony smile thing and then my husband and I watched as she disappeared from our view. She didn't turn back, but moved forward, as we want her to do. Our wounds are there, but the balm is knowing that we've helped raise an incredible human being.
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