She Moved Away Today

Goodbye, My Heart. Be Safe Out There.

In life, there always comes a day so distinct in emotional impact that it becomes a core memory. To be honest, there are a great many of those, indeed. Today was one such event for my family.

    My eldest daughter moved away from home.

As a mother, I have pondered this exact day for a very long time. Since before she was born, actually. Especially having experienced loss, she was the much-coveted fruition of Hubs's and my hopes and dreams. We talked about her for years before she arrived. We prayed over her while she kicked into our hands as she grew within my body.

We are not the kind of parents who set a course of any sort for our children. We promised to give them away: with each daughter, we knew that we were raising an autonomous human being who would someday be an adult out in a very big, very scary world. We prioritized making sure Big Sis had a good head on her shoulders, confidence, and motivation. We encouraged her greatly and eagerly anticipated finding out who she should be. We do the same with her sister. 

As it happens, our eldest is a strong woman in spirit and heart. She is independent, fierce, capable, and yet also tenderhearted, gifted, and kind. She is everything we could possibly have hoped for and more.

Yes, this day was always going to come. 

I mistakenly thought that musing over it enough times the past twenty years would somehow equate to readiness. I stared into her baby face a million times, hoping to memorize those moments so I might carry them with me when she walked off into her bright future. By the time she was five, it was absolutely killing me. How would I ever be capable of staying behind when my heart split away from me and took on the world on her own? 

Over the years, each time I woke up in the morning to find that her face had transformed overnight or her limbs had lengthened again, I wrestled quietly inside myself. 

"Let her go. Be prepared to let her go. Prepare her, and then watch her walk away. You can do this. You will have to do this. Let her go."

Somewhere in there, I convinced my mind that I had done exactly that: prepared her and prepared myself.

But... she moved away today.

I woke up to her slamming doors and banging on things, moving the inventory of her life thus far into her car. I was ready... I was ready... but I wasn't that ready! Somehow, I thought we might ease into the morning. I would have time to wake and process my emotions before she would load the car. Waking up to her already loading was jarring. It felt so...

Sudden.

Final.

How are we here? My goodness, what is the rush? I flew to the restroom so fast that I do not remember going, and then into the hallway, where my eyes met the stricken gaze of my disheveled youngest. I recognized it, as if an image in the mirror: 

"She feels just like me."

Shocked. A little bit panicked. And mostly... 

Not ready.

She stammered out to me that she had stayed awake all night, afraid to miss being up to help her sister. Keeping her tears at bay, she put on her brave little game face and helped load the evidence of a life shared with us into the car. I moved exactly one box, then sat there with my camera up - covertly documenting this moment or that. Everything felt monumental. 

Hubs came home between his stops for work and held her in a father's embrace that had been almost twenty-one years in the making.

He held us all, in fact. His arms wrapping around us in a huddle, he called out to God in thanks for our daughter, for His grace in our lives, and for the woman she has become. He requested blessings, safety, stability, joy, and a good life ahead. He prayed for our someday-son: that special young man who has completed another piece of our hearts. He prayed for everything sitting in my soul and his, as parents who have loved, nurtured, and are supportive of our (formerly) little one as she makes her way into the world permanently.

It was precious. We needed that family hug, that prayer. 

So lovely, So Proud

Hubs slipped back off to work, and the girls and I spent our final moments together. Big Sis ate breakfast and chatted with us while she watched the clock tick closer to time. At twenty-to-ten o'clock, she stood in the doorway to her bedroom for a moment, collecting her memories. We went out into the garage, where her car was loaded in every possible inch of space. She stood there with the door open, taking in the neighborhood a final time as a resident of our home, while Baby Sis and I stood behind the car and watched. We were in active "hold it together" mode, giving her space and telling her we love her. I was simultaneously running a video to share with her dad, grandparents, and aunties. 

We waved, she waved. She drove down the driveway to us calling out our love. She waved again as she turned the corner onto the road, and then it was done. She was gone. My little Pie collapsed into my arms, and we wept our mixed emotions of sorrow and pride: hers into my shirt and mine into her hair. It was chilly, so I suggested that we go inside to cry where it was warm. We curled up in the recliner and cried and talked, soaking in this sacred grief. 

We had just spent the week checking from room to room while Big Sis was at work: slowly removing individual pieces of her life from ours and placing them on her bed. We went through the kitchen. Could she use this container? Is that her cup? Did we get her cereal? How about some wax paper and aluminum foil? Did I remember to get her some trash bags in both sizes? 

The past two nights had been spent with Hubs and me listening to our two girls working together to pack her up. It has been so precious and has stretched our hearts to the farthest degree. 

What a beautiful time of life this is! What an honor and a privilege it has been to cohabitate with this extraordinary human being. I am acutely aware that not everyone is so lucky to endure this kind of pain: certainly not everyone who sincerely deserves it. We have been so very blessed.

Little Sis sat in the empty bedroom with her ocarina and played through a few of her comfort songs: the plaintive notes an echo of her wincing heart. It was beautiful and sad. Later, when Hubs came home, he found our cat (who fancies himself *her* cat) sitting where her bed had been: the same bed he curled up in every day, and snuggled against her in so many nights. He wailed his lament in an extended meow that was more of a howl. 

In the afternoon, my dear girl sent us photos and even did a video call so she could take us on a virtual tour of her apartment. It is just perfect and suits her so well. We smiled as she reveled in having a big bedroom, finally! My heart nearly burst as she showed us how she carefully stashed her items in closets, cupboards, and drawers; then all over again when she showed off her first-ever groceries, all nicely put away. She is really doing it. :)

Today has been emotional and heavy. It has been that painfully beautiful culmination of love and child-rearing completed. It is one of those days when a parent is simultaneously most proud and most vulnerable. I would not have changed it for anything. 

My little one and I are having trouble going to bed without her. We are both wide awake. The house feels too empty - too quiet. I only just sent her off to bed at half past midnight. There has been much cuddling here today. She had a youth meeting spanning several hours earlier tonight, for which I am grateful. When I finish these admittedly too-long words, I will go check on her again one last time. She misses her big sister. It is not lost on me how Big Sis was an only child for seven years, and now Little Sis is going to have a version of that experience as well. We doubtless have a period of adjustment ahead.

Goodnight, Sweet Girl

Tomorrow, our sweet girl returns long enough to take her final loads of belongings to her new home. This time, we are able to help her and will get to see her place with our own eyes. Tomorrow is brighter because she is once again back in it. 

Tonight... well, I will keep on being grateful. I will keep on being proud. 

And I will keep vigil, lest she should need me in the middle of the night.