The Little Leavings
4:00am. I woke up first to finish packing.
Swimsuit, earplugs, and swim cap (his right ear his a tiny hole in it from surgery years ago that still hurts when it gets wet). Check. Epipen and assorted medications (he has several health issues, including life-threatening food allergies). Check. Doctor’s note to carry the Ziploc bag of medication on the plane. Check. Graduation cards for the cousins. Check. A new little Lego from me tucked inside in case he gets bored. Check.
4:30am. I zip the suitcase closed and go upstairs.
He is curled around his stuffed Komodo dragon, under the quilt I made him when he was two, his breathing soft, and his curls damp at the back of his head when I lean over to wake him. He rubs his eyes and curls further under the covers. I wrap him up in a big hug and hand him a sweatshirt and clothes.
4:45am. We are headed to Daddy’s and then the airport to deliver them for my son’s first trip out of town (and state!) without me. The normal excitement of a trip and the sadness of first leavings has been heightened by a few things:
Food Allergies. During his younger years, he was in the Emergency Department multiple times with trouble breathing (asthma) and anaphylaxis (caused by food allergies). I was the one who first saw the signs — and who made sure he got the treatment he needed. Even though he’s eight now and knows he cannot have milk, eggs, or nuts, I won’t be there to double-check food labels before he eats (many common things like pasta, bread, or salad dressing can have milk ingredients in them — with long, hard-to-pronounce chemical names).
Covid. Traveling during the pandemic, while not vaccinated (as he’s under age 12), down to a southern state (with more cases and less stringent public masking) adds another layer of worry. He has asthma, which heightens my concern about his exposure to the pandemic.
5:15am. We unload their luggage, I squeeze him tight and put a kiss on him as he squirms away. They are off through the airport doors. I want to go in and see him as far as the security gate, but I know my new partner thinks that is too much.
“He didn’t look back,” I say turning to my partner.
“I know, but he’s just excited. He’ll be fine,” my partner says and hugs me.
I look at him with a mixture of anxiety and sadness. We get in the car and shut the doors. The emptiness begins to settle around me. Then my partner puts his hand on my leg and looks me directly in the eyes.
“It’ll be OK. You’ll be OK,” he says, and I know he’s right.
It’s these little leavings, I think, that prepare us for the eventual big leaving of becoming an “empty-nester.” Then we pull away from the departures curb and drive off in silence, headed to our own cabin getaway for a few days.
On a regular day, when my son’s yelling “Mom!” from another room for the tenth time, and I yell back “Come here and tell me!” or “Just a minute!” I have the tone of voice of everyday mom-ness — exasperated, in the middle of cooking, cleaning, or finishing a work email. That condition of parenthood where I take for granted his ever-presence and want peace and quiet for just 60 seconds.
In the silence of the car, all I thought I’d want to do (spend time with my romantic partner, sleep in undisturbed, read a good book, swim, puzzle) seems not to matter, and I just want that warm (not-so-little-as-he-used-to-be) body sitting on my lap and talking a mile a minute.
However, as my partner and I get our coffee and head up toward the mountains, I become engrossed in listening to an audio book and in having a real grown-up discussion —one where we are not interrupted every blessed sentence or two. I work on a puzzle. We go on a long hike. We relax into the time.
Some of it includes slow waves of sadness, the little leavings of childhood, a death of sorts to my years of single parenting to an adorable child who has (up until very recently) been my whole world.
But, as I put another piece of the puzzle into place, and look over at my partner reading, in the glow of our cozy cottage light, I also feel peace and a sense of great love.
We are meant to change, not to be frozen in place. From birth, life is a series of little leavings leading toward the gradual independence of a mature adult. It’s the way it’s supposed to be. Breastfeeding gives way to mushy food. Cutting up the meat on their dinner plate gives way to them setting and clearing the table. I already know this is how life goes. Mundane moments made sweeter by their fleetingness.
After all, how lucky he will finally meet his Daddy’s side of the family — so many aunts, uncles, and cousins — and what fun they’ll have at the zoo and the lake house.
How lucky I am to have this getaway time with someone new in my life, who I love with my whole heart.
Everything I have asked for is coming true. Not at all in the way I imagined it, or in the timeline I had planned. However, at nearly fifty, I have grown to appreciate the moments of my life that are the most average — yelling from the shower “Hold on. I’ll be out in a minute!” only to hear my son bursting through the door anyway with urgent news about the bite force of a Nile crocodile (5,000 pounds per square inch).
***
Four days go by. No calls or texts from my son.
I am simultaneously happy that he must be having such a great time, nervous to know if he’s okay, and sad that he isn’t a little homesick for me. I expected a call every day. But he’s growing up, and my partner reminds me that it’s his first time spending so long with his Dad (more than an overnight). “He’s just a kid. He’s excited. He still loves you,” my partner says. I nod. I think about all the times my son asked me to play with him when I was too busy. Sadness and guilt hover in the air around me, till I shake them off by dressing for a long hike followed by a rare dinner out.
***
Five days later, and we’re at the airport again. I plead with my partner to meet them at baggage claim. We’re there early (unusual for me).
We’re sitting on the bench, talking, and I look up to see my son with his backpack. He yells, “Mommy!” and runs across the airport to jump into my arms. I hug him tight, with all my love, and let him burst with news about his trip.
I’m not too late. I didn’t miss the rest of his childhood. Relief floods over me.
Turns out, I forgot the best part about the little leavings of kids growing up. Yes, it’s so incremental that you look up one day and wonder where the time went. But, also, it happens in fits and starts. They talk back almost like teenagers one minute, and the next they’re hugging you with the tightness of a toddler.
For this moment, I am grateful.
