“Want me to come in with you?” I asked, reassuringly.
A small smile crept into the corner of her mouth.
“No, mom. I got it.”
I watched from the driver’s seat as she walked into the store, turning one last time to look at me.
I settled into my seat, head against the headrest and smiled.
This was it. My first baby is growing up, reassuring me along the way that I’ve done my job. I’ve walked beside her, leading by example, showing her the ropes of life.
And now, she’s confident enough to take a stab at it on her own, knowing full-well I’m nearby if needed.
There’s no one at the counter.
There never is. Just find someone who works there and ask them.
I can’t find anyone. Can you come in? . . .wait, nvm.
She walked back through those double doors, holding the bag up to prove her mission had been successful.
“See?” She said, climbing back into the passenger’s seat.
My in-laws home was so much more than just any-old-house.
Designed and built by my father-in-law, Bill, their retirement home rests upon over 50 acres of land on the banks of Lake Mattamuskeet, a National Wildlife Refuge found 30 miles from the nearest stop light.
The land is full of migratory birds, black bears, and deer, to name a few. Rich, black soil supports vibrant family-owned farmland as far as the eye can see.
My mother-in-law, Betty, grew up in her grandmother’s house next door. They didn’t have electricity until she was 12 years old and used a horse before they purchased a car.
Bill was raised with his large family across the Lake. Ten years apart in age, they met shortly after Betty graduated from high school and the rest is history.
They moved to Chesapeake, VA to give their four children more opportunities and moved right back to retire in Fairfield the second my husband graduated high school more than 30 years ago.
Bill passed away in the home when our oldest, Aurora, was only 4 months old. Betty has remained, ever since.
Yes, this house and its land was so much more than any-old home.
It’s where our little family spent every single Easter and Thanksgiving.
This is where our girls picked figs, peaches and pears in the Summer and grapes, apples and pecans in the Fall.
This is where they learned to ride a 3-wheeler, shoot a gun, and befriend a domesticated deer named Jane Doe.
This is the place my children bottle fed lambs and calves, where we roasted oysters over open fire and dyed easter eggs.
Fairfield Methodist Church is where all four of our girls were baptized. It’s where they listened to their Granny play the piano and received treats for the children’s sermon.
When I close my eyes, I feel the soft wind brush my hair. The air is filled with the scent of ripe figs so visceral, I can taste them. I hear the crunch of the pecan hulls underneath my feet and soak in the stunning sunset over the pier my husband built in the lake.
Yes, this home is more than just any-old-house.
It’s a symphony of senses.
It’s a holder of some of our family’s most precious memories that we will carry with us for a lifetime.
When I tell you I’m having a real time with one of my daughters, I mean I am having a real time.
I liken the reward of raising her to pouring water into a sieve. No matter how much you give, it feels as if nothing is retained.
And thanks to the file I retrieved when cleaning out my dad’s condo, containing every one of my report cards and conference sheets, I discovered just how very similar this daughter is to me, when I was her age.
Now I truly understand just how hard I was to parent (sorry, mom).
There are so many days I feel as if I have nothing left to give while simultaneously feeling guilty for feeling this way about my own child.
Therapy helps (for both of us). So do frequent breaks to refuel my empty tank.
But what to tell myself when I feel hopeless? When it seems nothing is changed, nothing learned?
What is my role?
My steadfast presence.
That I stay. Even when it is hard. Especially when it’s ugly.
That although I seemingly get very little from this current relationship, I remain an anchor for her to hold onto.
That’s it.
I may not see great change now or ever but I remain.
At 88 and 93 years old, this moment has been building for decades and yet much like the arrival of a newborn, I still feel wholly unprepared.
While Emmett’s dad passed away shortly after our eldest was born, his mother has remained a steadfast presence in our family’s life.
Home to the great pecan tree where our girls picked up its bountiful offering numbering in the thousands, Fairfield, NC was our family’s escape from the rat race of city life. Fairfield was where we spent every Easter and Thanksgiving. Offering its wide-open spaces and clear, starry skies filled with the ever-present sounds of migratory birds, frogs and the wind, Fairfield felt like home.
Home to the pool, where my dad taught me how-to-swim, my father’s top-floor condo overlooking Towne Point Park and the Elizabeth River, offered expansive views. A docent at the Chrysler Museum for years, my dad’s walls were covered in beautiful and valuable art and yet; the girls cartwheeled through the living room as if it were home.
My dad moved into a long-term care last month and this month, my mother-in-law moves into a nearby senior community providing us the opportunity to see them more often.
Emmett and I are a decade apart and yet here we both are; cleaning out his mom and my dad’s home. Discovering old photographs and letters. Claiming furniture and special mementos.
“You need to tell her. You need to get into your car right now, go over there and tell her.” my husband encouraged.
It was the eve of my birthday. We were on our front porch and I had just read aloud a letter I’d found while cleaning out my father’s condo. Apparently, he had kept a file for each of his children. In mine I found every report card, parent/teacher conference record and a collection of letters.
What a treasure trove of memories this was for me to dive deeply into.
But the one dated December 11, 1987 left me breathless.
If you’ve followed my blog, then you know the story of my beginning. I am the illegitimate love- child of a long-term affair. My parents worked together but no one suspected, not even after I was born. My older sisters, who also worked with my parents, knew me as “Pam’s daughter” but did not learn I was their half-sister until I was three.
My mother was a powerful business woman. She was charismatic, magnetic, and inspiring. She meant much to many across the entire country but it was me, who wanted her attention the most.
I spent so many years of my life resentful and angry for the time she’d spent building her career in place of a closer relationship with me. Now that I have a daughter very similar to me, when I was a child, I understand how challenging it must have been to forge that relationship. I didn’t make it easy.
I finished this letter and instantaneously, my anger evaporated leaving nothing but remorse in its wake.
I desperately wanted to call her and tell her how sorry I was for failing to recognize the love she had held for me my entire life. I was so busy focusing on her shortcomings that, as a result, I completely missed her devotion and steadfast love.
My mother advocated for me. She encouraged my father to maintain a relationship with me not just in this letter but in other letters I found in the file: inviting him to conferences, recording my thoughts to him pen-to-paper when I could not yet write.
How could I ever thank her enough for that gift? The gift of the presence of my father?
What if I had found this after her death and had never apologized?
What if my father hadn’t kept these letters for me to one day find?
But he did and she’s still here and my husband willed me to go to her.
I couldn’t get a hold of her until the next day but when she answered, I started by telling her how much I loved her followed immediately by how sorry I was for remaining angry with her for so long. I thanked her for loving me anyway, in spite of my anger. For never giving up on me. Not then and not now.
I spent the better part of my thirties examining my past to better understand my present.
Now in my forties, I feel like I’ve got a solid understanding of how I came to be who I am.
I understand that while I will never be able to fill the gaps for that lonely, lost little girl of my past, I sure can provide my own girls with a solid foundation.
And instead of wallowing in what happened, I can forgive myself for my missteps, buckle up my shoes and keep walking, eyes forward.
My childhood friends and I always mimicked my mom’s “You have a choice, Lauren.” speech. But my mom gets the final laugh because, she was right!
There are always going to be people we’d rather not be around or challenging, unavoidable life events.
We can’t choose those people or those events but we can choose how we handle them.
It’s how we respond that matters.
I have quite a few friends enduring some major life changes this holiday season- deaths of loved ones, divorce and general heartache.
To them and to all of you reading, I reach out my hand to hold yours and to remind you that in this holy season, you can also put those hands together in prayer to ask for God’s help.
You’re not alone.
We never are.
That’s one choice we can’t make.
Wishing you love, peace and joy this holiday season.
Lately, I’ve started to visualize my life as a river.
She’s a real beaut.
Surrounded by tall trees and mountains. She curves through forests, banked by shady trees; winding through cities, carrying on as rapids to more peaceful pastures.
My river began as a stream and has gained confidence and power along the way.
There have been moments when my river stalled. She was curious, exploring a side cove.
Sometimes, she got stuck in a whirlpool.
Round-and-round she went until she forgot not only where she came from but also where she was going.
Finally, a particularly dreadful downpour left her overflowing back to her main stream whereupon she realized, with great relief, that the whirlpool wasn’t her final destination.
New Leaf Parenting 