We Have the Rest of Our Lives
The last day before she goes to her dad’s house. The worst day.
I always want to make the most of it, get in all the conversations I know we need to have. Be sure we also have enough time to play. And relax and of course, be spontaneous. Yet, the beat of my heart is the clock ticking away.
Tate’s been going back and forth for a few years now. One might think I’d have figured out how to do it. Nope. Not even close.
I need her to go - to rest, to get back into my own body. For her to know herself around her daddy and have space from me.
And I never want her to go. Not for a single minute. Ever. It’s the most UNnatural thing in the world. I hate losing time with her. There’s never enough.
This last day, before Tate goes, brings me back to my sophomore self. To that needy, desperately grasping, sad feeling I had the whole last twenty-four hours at my boyfriend’s college, anticipating leaving him, my best friend, to go back to my own. I remember trying to will myself to be more present and not ruin our time together by worrying about our time apart. And yet, there was nothing that worked.
Here I am. In my fifties. There, again. With my own daughter. Feeling helpless, grasping, again. I’ve given in to admitting it aloud to my girl, because why try to hide it?
“Sorry, Tate, I know I’m being sort of needy today. I’m just feeling you’re leaving for daddy’s soon and you know how I get ...
" It’s okay, Mama.”
“Well, no, not really though. I sort of ‘miss’ our time together by worrying about getting in all the things I want to which makes me less present and blah blah blah.”
“I so want you to go and am excited for you and, it’s just hard. I feel this pressure to get a lot in - we still haven’t brainstormed ideas for your speech together. We wanted to go visit Helen, around the corner, who’s back from her trip and eager to tell us all about it. I wanted to show you how to do pull-ups and we talked about sharing our favorite jokes from this year while we did foot rubs this weekend but then we’ve been so busy with soccer and parties and everything else and …”
“Mama, it’s okay, it’s okay, really.”
“But, no baby, it’s not. I mean all I really wanna do is curl up on the couch together and vedge. But, then you’ll go and we’ll not have done anything we wanted to or talked about the importnat things we needed to …”
Suddenly I feel like a child, which is okay because I. know I’m not. I’m just allowing myself to be super real, especially vulnerable. Maybe it’ll help her understand why I get ‘weird’ on these Sundays.
“Mommy,” Tate grabs both my shoulders and looks me dead in the eyes, making me stand up a bit straighter.
I look back at her, a bit teary, shoulders slumped, a resigned bottom lip plumped out in a self-deprecating half-smile, realizing I’d been going on and on, “Whatttt?” I whine.
“We have our WHOLE lives, the REST of our lives, Mama, for all these things. And we’ll do them. We’ll talk about it all.”
How the hell does she know so much - the clarity, her wisdom, floors me as once again, I agree. And give in to letting go. Though, I don’t know the way she knows how long we’ll really have.
