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Buying A Good Broom
B. J. Mackinnon
Web Exclusive
Years have passed since the first milestones of parenthood and my children's lives. The first time they sat up, the first time they walked, we cheered, we clapped, and we enjoyed their independent spirit. I recognize such milestones as signs of growth and maturity on both my children's and my part. The other side of this is the sadness over the passage of time and the marching on of generations, as I become an older mother and grandmother. As the years go by, mothering the four children born into my life has become more poignant and beautiful.
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Some time ago, I was shopping with my then-19-year-old daughter, who was moving into an apartment in New York City. She had worked all of her high school career toward this end and was a student at NYU, her dream come true. She had begged us to let her move out of the dorm and into her own apartment. She was in love and moving on to the "real life" she had envisioned and worked for. My husband and I worked through this process as we had done before with our two older children, through lots of discussion about what was best and how we would all cope with this decision. We both agreed that she would be able to do it.
As we shopped for plates and towels for the new apartment, it was the broom that got me. How could my daughter, who had never cared a hoot about a clean floor (it was covered with her belongings, she never actually saw it!), want a broom, of all things? For me, this was the marker of her entry into adulthood. "Abbi, you want a broom?" I asked incredulously.
"Mom, there are only wooden floors in the apartment. I don't need a vacuum," she answered sensibly.
So I now have grown children who know how to clean up after themselves, even though they never showed a sign of it as teenagers. I trust them and have faith in their abilities, and they ask for a broom, a sensible, down-to-earth broom. I've now been through this ritual three times and have taken pleasure watching my children move out into the world and experiencing them as adults. I feel excited by their accomplishments and trust the process that has gotten them here.
Then why is it that last week I burst into tears when the HMO wrote and asked if Emily, my youngest child, will continue to be enrolled in college? Letters from insurance companies don't normally have this kind of effect on me. What was I thinking?
Emily and I have been up and down the roller coaster of teenage years and are now into the lovely trial period of the late teens, when she is blossoming into adulthood. She hasn't yet asked for a broom, but she is scheming with some dorm buddies about moving off campus. I give her some alternatives and some advice (was that solicited or not?), including suggestions on how to start conversations with landlords, how to get roommates to commit, and so forth. The next week we talk about summer jobs.
We have adult conversations. I'm enjoying the fruits of my labors from having been there three times before. Friends whose kids are just entering the roller coaster stage marvel at how well I handle the conversations. I counsel confidently that you just have to have faith in the process.
But then there is this letter from the HMO. What they don't yet know is that Emily has just left home for her life's adventure, an adventure that doesn't include continuing her dean's-list college career for the moment. This is the same young woman with whom I've been talking about new living space. Now the conversation has changed completely, and she has found a job and moved across the country. Just like that!
Receiving this letter was one of those moments that makes you realize there is nothing more you will be doing to help your child along on the road to adulthood, because she's already there. I am dumbfounded by the intensity of my reaction to her being gone. I had looked forward to her finishing college, falling back on us from time to time, then picking herself up and moving forward.
My husband and I struggle with this transition, which came far sooner and more abruptly than we had anticipated. We grapple with the worries: how will she manage, will she go back to school, where will she live? We balance it with how incredibly happy she sounds for the first time in a very long time. Gone are the complaints about little pieces of daily life: "Mom, you should hear how this guy talks to people"; "I just can't stand this class, it's so useless." She knew life was a series of classes and work that she was doing because it was the "right thing to do."
Today she is saying, "I love it here in the mountains" (but wait, aren't we an ocean-loving family?). "I love this work, it's so interesting, the people here are so neat, and when I go back to school, I will declare a major, but first I have to establish residency and save some money." Establish residency? Yikes, I was still back three paragraphs ago at how to get the unhappy roommates to cooperate--and she has left them and me in the dust to establish residency in another state across the vast expanse of this country! Once that girl gets an idea she's off and running, and it's hard to keep pace with her. How can we say anything but, "Yes, of course," and return to the trust in the process that has worked so well three times before?
Nonetheless, I am not ready for the outside world, in the guise of an HMO, to confront me with the reality of letting her go. People question her sanity--"She isn't coming back home, she's dropping out of school, she's only 19!" So I'm officially an empty-nester. Now I smile and repeat, "You gotta trust the process." A broom or a letter--either way it's tugging at my heartstrings, and it's grand and wondrous all at the same time.
B. J. Mackinnon is the mother of Jennifer (33), Joshua (29), Abigail (25), and Emily (22), and the loving grandmother of Madelyn and Finneas. She lives in Massachusetts with her husband, John Miller, and works in a midwifery practice at a birth center.
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