“You can feel happy and sad at the same time, you know.
It just happens that way sometimes.”
from The Hello Goodbye Window, by Norton Juster
She had been packed for a week already. Clothes laid out, organized by day, folded into plastic bags, vacuum-packed with her mouth, labeled with permanent marker.
“Mommy, I need more plastic bags please.”
“Okay, I’ll pick some up by the end of the week.”
“I’d like them tonight. Can I ride my bike to the store and get some?”
“Sure - of course!”
And so it went - slowly, the suctioned bags disappeared from her floor into her backpack until there was nothing left to pack. Everything on her list - and wow! she is a list-maker from my side of the family - checked and crossed off, twice to be sure.
There were still four days left until her trip. Instead of the details and logistics I’d expected to envelop us like quick sand, we found ourselves with time to chat in the evenings leading up to her trip.
I wanted to share advice - be your own person, no matter what your friends choose. Drink more water than you think you need.
I wanted to impart cautions - please watch out for others while you’re on the RimTrail. It only takes one misstep out there.
I wanted to instill reminders - remember to charge your camera batteries. Please take regular showers.
But my Inner Voice stopped me. “She knows all that and if she doesn’t, she’ll learn,” I.V. said. “Giving her advice is what you want to do in this moment to manage your anxiety around saying goodbye. Don’t make this about you - it’s about her.”
So I swallowed my angst couched as advice and instead handed her a journal. “I love revisiting the small moments of the important trips I took when I was young. This one is for you.” She took it eagerly, slipped it into the pocket of her backpack, then curled up next to me to share all the things she was looking forward to about her trip. I simply listened.
As I roused her in the wee hours of the morning for the first leg of her journey, my husband took a break from sleep to say goodbye. He waited patiently in the kitchen as she collected her things. When she melted into his arms to say goodbye, the tears that sprang up in my eyes surprised me.
So much of life as a parent of young children is hellos - meeting them for the first time, introducing them to the smallest joys of the world little by little, showing them new things, orchestrating new experiences. As I watched Nina hug my husband that morning, I was suddenly aware that we had tipped a balance and were sliding into a stage of gradual goodbyes, sending her into the world on her own to experience things for herself.
She is leading us to the crest of that hill. Our only choice is to follow her up and stand at the top, feeling wistfully happy and sad at the same time as we let her go.
