Posted on September 26, 2009 - by Cate

She’s Gone

She’s gone.

Just like that, 19 years in the making, and she’s off to college. The girl with the curl in the middle of her forehead, proclaiming “so big” with her arms stretched high. My pain is staggering. The anxiety, overwhelming.

I’m having a hard time comprehending what just happened. Despite filling out the countless forms and schlepping to several campuses, in the dead of winter no less, I’m still in denial.

But she’s always been here I protest — slow to get up in the morning (night owl), she contemplates a run to Starbucks either on her way to school or work. Dragging herself up and out, sauntering into my room wearing something fabulous but simply thrown together, she swears. She texts me of her arrival, and perhaps skypes me during the day of an event. When she arrives back home I hear her voice calling out from downstairs “I’m home family!” and the dogs bark their greeting.

“How was your day?” I would ask, and she would reply, “fine” or “great” or “it sucked” and then we’d discuss. “How much homework do you have” or “When is dinner going to be ready?”

Then it was on to the homework, or manga or fan fiction, but if I was really lucky, it would be a snuggle and a movie or top chef or project runway. And the banter would begin. Either a singalong (we love musicals), lip-syncing the dialog to our favorite movies (anything jane austen is a perennial favorite, “Hill” in our best Mrs. Bennett voice), or rating our favorite reality chef or designer. Oh she’ll probably still do all of those things just not with us (I’m really blocking the whole snuggling thing) but with someones elses. My inner child is screaming.

When she works around the house she can be found/heard with her iPod turned up. Show tunes & Disney are her favorites and I can hear her singing to them as she does the dishes or works on her computer — Hairspray, ABBA, Little Mermaid in no particular order.

Will she make good decisions? Will she remain safe? Will she study?  Will she make time for us? Who am I kidding, for me. We’re close, how do I remain relevant, useful to her? Who am I if not a mom? Am I still a mom when she’s not here to parent? Who does that make me without her — like ripping a piece of me off, there’s a huge gaping hole.

I’m an emotional amputee, trying to figure out how to adapt my life to this recent trauma. Just as a physically challenged patient rearranges his home for, say, a wheelchair, I am staring at her room wondering if I can manage to get up and down the stairs without looking in, hoping to see her dark brown hair tumbling out from underneath the covers.

college bound

Upon arriving home from the scene of the accident (can I call it that when it was a premeditated?) I went into her room, crawled under her bedding, screamed into her pillow and let the tears rip.

Not that I managed a dignified exit. We were all in her dorm room, saying our goodbyes. I dismissed the rest of the family to have a few minutes alone with her — Mom’s privilege. She began to cry, crawled into my lap, and I held onto her for dear life. She expected a lecture but she didn’t get one. “I love you,” I said quietly, worried about the unknown to come. I asked her to promise me to be safe, study hard, and keep the channels of communication open. I sobbed down four flights of stairs and stumbled into the car. I couldn’t get out of that college town fast enough.