The front room of my
house sits directly over the garage. There are two windows that face west and protect
the room from the rising sun, which is important in Florida. They also face the
road so it gets a little noisy at times. The walls are light blue and the dark
blue curtains make the deep blue hues from the large painting stand out. Aside
from the painting that my daughter picked up at an auction, the only other
object in the room is a new futon my husband and I bought in case we needed an
extra guest room. When he comes home he’ll wonder why I’m in here because we
don’t use this room. This is our daughter’s room. We still refer to it as
"Mary Lou's" room even though it’s been more than a year since she moved out.
As I sit here, on what I’m discovering is a very
uncomfortable futon, I can’t help but picture the room the way it used to be.
It was never this clean. I always hated the way she couldn’t hang up her
clothes or throw away her trash. Every time I entered I had to physically push
things aside to make a path for myself. Sometimes I’d find my missing shoes
underneath the rubble and make a mental note to reprimand her later for
borrowing without asking permission. The walls used to be a horrible shade of
orange that she insisted on having. I always suspected it was her way of
reminding us how angry she was for moving her so far away from her friends and
her beloved Syracuse University. The room looks better now. So why do I miss
the clutter?
When I look around this cold, empty room, I can’t help
but compare it to my heart. It feels hollow and desolate. I’m reminded of all
the childhood memories she’s gifted me with. I can hear her say, “Just one more
song, Mommy.” I was once her entire world. No one was more important than
Mommy. Sometimes I would watch her sleep as tears ran down my face because I
knew she wouldn’t stay small forever and no matter how much we taught her and
prepared her for life on her own, I would never be ready for that day. Nothing
prepares you for parenthood. Sure there are books you can read and classes you
can take but they cannot equip you for the array of emotions you will
experience. It is incomprehensible how much you can love someone until you hold
your child in your arms. It feels as if your heart will explode. Or the fear
you’ll feel when you fully understand you can’t always be there for them every
second of the day.
Watching "Mary Lou" grow up has been an incredible experience.
I think she taught me just as much as I’ve taught her, if not more. I’m so
proud of the young woman she’s become and I can’t wait to see where she goes
from here. She turns 22 in two days and she’s starting a whole new chapter of
life with an extraordinary young man, and
they seem harmoniously happy together. I’m still apprehensive for her, as I
suspect I always will be, but I’m eager to see her start her new life.
Perhaps one day when I come into this room I won’t be sad because I can imagine
a crib against the far wall so the sounds from the road won’t be so obtrusive;
or maybe a rocking chair and a music box. I can sing lullabies again and share
stories when they ask me what their mom was like at their age. It would be nice
if they could spend some weekends with me the way "Mary Lou" did with her
grandparents. And maybe, just maybe I’ll get to hear children pleading
earnestly, “Just one more song, Grandma.”
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