I can feel it already.
There are evenings now that contain the faintest hint of it; a bonfire
that requires a sweatshirt… mornings that lay wrapped in shrouds of chilly
mist… a Super Moon gauzy in the inky black sky. It is coming.
I am not ready.
This is a big year in the Dahl house. Big. I have been a mother for nearly three decades. Chubby-cheeked, squalling baby Trevor
joined the world July of 1986. On
Monday, the youngest of the Dahl tribe, sweet Hannah Rose, will begin her
senior year of high school. Did
you hear what I just said? Her
SENIOR YEAR. Yes, I am shouting
this information at you. It seems
less real if I scream into the wind and the sound of my voice is swallowed by
the gale and carried to an unknown place.
She wasn’t supposed to be a girl. I was pretty sure Mr. Dahl and I were incapable of birthing
a female. I had to ask my husband
to repeat the doctor’s pronouncement that we had indeed conceived a girl. I had always said I wanted four boys –
no girls. Boys are just so
EASY. They argue – they punch each
other in the gut a few times – and it’s over. No drama. No
petty catiness.
After son #3 joined the ranks, I figured my wishes had been
heard by the Guy in the Sky and I’d get that golfing foursome after all. But there was a latent, growing need
blossoming in me to try my hand at raising a sweet little petunia. When she arrived, I knew our family was
complete. I loved her before I
knew she was a she.
And my oh my, did I have fun! I sewed flouncy little dresses for her and found every shade
of hair do-dad imaginable. I
curled her hair every Saturday night so she’d have a head full of bouncy blond
spirals for church on Sunday. I
stocked up on tights and (gulp) paid the bucks for an American Girl doll. We had tea parties with real tea and
cookies and watched princess movies together. I love her so very much.
But the cool breath of Autumn is in the air. Only faintly last August as we raided the
Kohls racks for just the right back-to-school clothes. I felt the gooseflesh chilling my
marrow and reached for a sweater as she went on a school sponsored state
college tour. I knew it was
coming. All of the usual signs
were present. But I have this
ridiculous need to rebel against the onslaught of winter. I wear flip-flops way too late in the
season. I refuse to wear socks
year round – even on subzero days.
I raise my fist in the face of Narnia’s Forever Winter and shout, “I
refuse to bend!”
And yet…
… the leaves are turning. The fragrance of chimneys belching wood smoke permeates the
air and apple crisp bubbling in the oven. These signs of approach of winter all
pull my face close and whisper, “It is here. You must accept that it is time.”
So we raided the Kohls racks once again and finalized her
fall schedule and made plans for a family college tour. The ACT practice book sits on her
desk. A stack of unopened college
admissions mail is scattered around her room like cards in a forgotten
game.
Her Spring is coming and my Autumn is descending. She will choose a college and retake
the ACT and tuck her truck stop job money away for college late night pizza
runs and shampoo and overpriced textbooks. And she will be giddy with the freedom of liberation from
parental strict oversight, as we all were.
It is her time.
Time to take her first hesitant steps into adulthood. Her future Woman is waiting for her
there. And so I must be happy for
her. The college years are really
unlike any other time of life.
They will shape and mold and refine her.
I am happy for me too.
I cannot stop the advent of senior year and college freshman. I wouldn’t even if I could. I have been here three times
before. I am enough of an expert
at it to know she will survive and thrive.
“Why are you jumping ahead??” you are asking. Savor the moment, Vonda! Don’t wish it away and dive headfirst
into waters that are a full year away.
What’s wrong with you, Quasihippie???
Fear not. I
will savor. I AM savoring. I watch her walk across a room and
memorize the shape of her form. I
drink in the way her long silken hair catches the sparks from the sun streaming
through the window. I listen to
her babble about everything and nothing and am fully in the moment. I will not have these small
treasures a year from now.
I have been here before. I know what lies ahead.
And yet, I know that John and I have good days ahead as
well. The last time it was just
the two of us we were not even twenty-five yet. We were flat broke.
It will be infinitely enjoyable to rediscover what it means to be a
couple again. And we will look
forward to their visits. Trevor
comes home occasionally for the weekend.
The other two may land close enough to do the same. Time will tell. Our nest will not be so empty as just
vacant in between visits. I do not
look at the years ahead as Winter, but rather an extended Fall. I love Fall. I think I will be OK.
In the meantime, I will sit on bleachers on chilly Saturday
mornings and cheer for volleyball games.
I will clap and laugh for one-act plays and speech meets. I will be there for every possible track meet (outdoor track in North Dakota is... interesting). I will begin the time-intensive process
of searching for childhood photos for her graduation party. I will compile the invitation list. Our tea parties will take on the shape
and form of late night popcorn and shopping days. I will savor and drink in and memorize while she is with
me. Oh dear. There is a little burning behind my eyes
even as I type the words… a little mist gathering on my lashes. I suspect I will have this reaction to
Sentimentality many times over the precious, fleeting days of My Autumn. I better get used to it.
On her first day of Kindergarten, I held her impossibly
small hand in my own, helped her put her things away, hugged her tiny frame and
walked away. I had no doubt whatsoever
that she would never survive without me.
I was wrong.
She flapped her fragile little wings uncertainly a time or two, then
faced the wind and soared. She has
ridden the currents on giddy heights ever since. She will be just fine.
I miss her already…
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