Wednesday, August 27, 2014

It's Been Five Days Since You Left for College and We're Still Here, But You're Not and It Is So Quiet

Follow my blog with Bloglovin 18-year-old daughter moved out last Thursday...The daughter who graduated with high honors and was voted "Best Personality" of her senior class. The first child. The test kid. The experiment in parenting. The first heart to leave the house for longer than just a week away in L.A.

You know - the moment I've waited impatiently for through 18 years of living with the "best personality." The unexpected moment of such overwhelming grief and pride and insecurity that...was just more than a little surprising in it's intensity. I am happy for her adventure. I am thrilled she got in to a good school. I am haunted by the mistakes I made along the way. Sincerely and truly. It was the sobbing, mascara stained, sisters clinging to childhood, that my hand to God, stopped our existing world.

Give her space. Don't call. Don't text.

But, if I don't contact her how will I will she will we go on?

Texts that would like to be sent:

Do you like your roommate?
Did you finish hanging up your pictures?
Have you made anyone laugh?
Are my favorite shoes having a good time in college?
Have you looked at the 52 page photo/quote album I made you and left for you to easily find the moment I returned to your childhood home and left you in the wilds of a college dorm?
Have you read any of Dad's "Phils-osphy" book?
Are you flossing?
What's the bathroom like?
I guess technically they're your shoes, even though I paid for them.
Are you always with another person when you walk on campus at night?
Good night.
Are you carrying your mace?
Good morning.
You should see your bedroom here. You actually do have carpeting.
I miss you.
Can I come down for lunch on Friday?
Or dinner?
Have you thought about coming home this weekend?
They're just such pretty shoes.
Your replacement, Chewiethedog, keeps stealing your Minnie Mouse slippers and your Minion.
Your Dad wants to keep your bedroom door closed.
I won't let him.
I love seeing the carpet...
Did you apply for a job yet?
Are you getting all of your books? Legally?
Do you miss home?
Are you sleeping enough?
How often have you gone to Starbucks?
Your sister misses you terribly.
It is so quiet.
The mayonnaise and ranch dressing are taking up too much space and remain unappreciated in the fridge.
I'm considering moving.
What are your teachers names and do you think you can hang in the university collective of intellectuals?
What are you reading in English? Have you written anything yet?
Please. Stay. Strong.
How many parties have you been to? Any of them Campus Crusade for Christ?
Are you scared?
Are you free and happy?
Excited for your potential to be exposed?
Frightened you don't have any?
You do. BTW.
Please don't lend the pretty shoes to your roommate. I'd like them to visit someday. Soon.
Do you want to stay?

What I actually text after letting an agonizing 24 hours pass:

Get vitamins when you go to Target.

That's it. Well, more followed, in yet another 24 hours that felt like 3 weeks, but the vitamins seemed to be the least....overly-protective.

Now, let go. And let God.


It is so quiet.

(She likes her roommate, all books purchased legally, she looked at the photo album I made her, she had a sandwich today. That's all I know as of now.) 

(I'm going to try to not go see her tomorrow.)

(Hoping to hear good news that the pretty shoes are having a wonderful time. Quietly in her closet.)

Wednesday, August 20, 2014

To Talia on Her 17th Birthday

While on vacation in California this July, I received a text from the youngest daughter, Talia, announcing that a dog had been rescued and was living with the two teenage daughters currently at home alone. In this text from the youngest daughter was a long list of why said dog should stay. Mainly, she stressed that this dog would be the blonde replacement for the blonde older sister, Hannah, who was leaving for college in two weeks. This sentence was followed with: "Please tell Dad."

I gave her 10 days to potty train this dog. (I wanted to name her Mary Murphy, but was told that she was not my dog.) 

10 days have come and gone. She is not entirely potty trained. But...well, here we are:

Talia the Rescuer

Sherman, the 13-year-old cat in the shelter for six months
came home with a tearful 13-year-old daughter.
6 months after Sherman, the 14-year-old cat died,
 there was Shelly, the 12-year-old cat in kidney failure

2 months after Shelly passed,
Surely, a 4-year-old obese fluff ball came home too.
Surely- the *%#!@ 
She's a cat too.
She's not very nice.
Her full name is Surely You Didn't Just Call Me Surely.
It fits.

well, yeah, maybe, I brought all of these animals home.
But, I brought them home for Talia. Who wanted them.
I swear.

And then there's
Talia rescues me when I'm a sobbing, pitiful failure
By raising herself out of her teenage self to encourage.
She always knows how point out that I am not as pitiful as I think.

But mostly,
there's Chewie.

A matted,
Tossed around,
Not yet a dog when found frantically trying to get out of a lake.
But now,
 Chewie is the sweet rescuer of the perpetually sad Talia,
Snickers, the 13-year-old first pet dog who is romping again
Surely, who is less of a *%#!@
Hannah, the sister who moves out today and turns to mush at the sight of Chewie,
Me, again, who sees the change in all of the above,
the Dad, who is more in love with Chewie than anyone else.

We all laugh at, love, play with, cuddle and adore

A scrawny, mess of calm grace and playful gratitude.
A little portable mop that found our home
Because Talia is a rescuer of vulnerability
And abandoned, hopeful causes.

Where there is an ache,
There will be
Talia to the rescue.

Thank God.

To Talia on her 17th birthday:


Take good care. 
Both of you.