I received a letter from my sister yesterday. In it she had enclosed a reflective essay I had shared with her 25 years ago.
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It is winter and bitterly cold, the kind of New England night that is stark and silent, brightly lit by the reflection of the full moon off the snow. But I am surrounded by warmth. In my lap as she is every night, is Tracey. At two she is an affectionate little girl, always ready to hop up and cuddle as soon as I sit down. Next to me in the big rocking chair is Allan. He is five and thinks that he is too big to snuggle, but as we wrap the afghan around ourselves and begin to read a story, he edges closer and soon worms his way under my arm so that he, too, is being held. The smell of Ivory soap and Johnson's Baby Shampoo surrounds us, for the children have just been bathed and are ready for bed. We are enclosed in the afghan cocoon, at home and secure.
My eyes open to darkness. Where are the children? And then I realize - it is the dream again. Emerging from sleep, I remember. Allan is married. He and Cindy have just celebrated their first anniversary. Tracey is in Boone, a freshman at Appalachian State University. Next to me is my husband, a comforting presence, sleeping soundly. I lie there and wonder if my children are safe.
A hostage to insomnia, I shift restlessly, thoughts whirling out of control. I think of how my husband and I have raised our children, fully expecting that they would become independent individuals. We deliberately offered them more choices as they grew, first giving them the opportunity to chose between peanut butter and jelly or bologna sandwiches, later helping them decide whether to take piano or drum lessons. As they matured, we allowed them to venture further and further on their own. Because God in his infinite wisdom makes teenagers obnoxious, we began to look forward to the time when it would be just the two of us again. And when that time came, we mourned our loss. And now I find myself lying awake in the middle of the night, wishing I could have back some of the time I once wished away.
Impatiently I roll over, searching for a comfortable position. My thoughts turn too, to the memory of a local news program which included a story about adult children moving back home, and I find myself hoping I will not have to deal with that situation. After all, I like my life as it is. At last I am back in school, fulfilling an ambition I have had for two decades. I can do as I choose because there are no children at home, no one waiting to be chauffeured to the dentist, wanting my car, surrounding the refrigerator with hordes of hungry friends. My husband and I can loaf around the house in sloppy old bathrobes and have conversations which proceed uninterrupted by the sound of bickering. Relieved at last of the burden of setting a good example, we can eat potato chips for dinner. I loved the time in my life when the children were home, but now I love this time in my life, and I think that I am unwilling to change again.
Nor am I willing to preserve our nuclear family forever, with all the pother and the pecking order. I certainly don't miss the ear-shattering sound of Allan's electric guitar or our arguments about the volume. I can listen to the radio and really hear the program. And it is wonderful to look in Tracey's old room and actually see the floor. For years I was sure that she was walking on a pile of clothes that began in the basement. Her dorm room still has that same ambiance, but it is 100 miles west of here, out of sight.
Perhaps we are now in the last "awkward stage" as far as our children are concerned. I find that I am getting better at partings. While I am happy to see our children when the come home to visit, I am equally happy to see them go back to their own lives, leaving us to ours. Perhaps, in the natural evolution of things, I will begin to miss them less and enjoy them in a new way. Perhaps, as we establish ourselves in new patterns, parenthood will recede and friendship will emerge. But I have the nagging sense that somewhere, in the far recesses of my heart, I will always long for the feel of small arms around my neck, for the trusting weight of a child leaning against me in the chair, for the even rhythm of sweet, young breath, for my children, safe and warm at home.
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