Liftoff

Fresh from our Thanksgiving viewing of Wicked, the CWP and I were enjoying a sort of suspended animation. We’d known since September that she’d be moving out, but with her surgery looming there was no sense of urgency (which also enabled a bit of denial). Sure, there were a few forays to Home Goods, lots of hours spent brainstorming and online, and even a few carloads transported to the gorgeous apartment seemingly tailor-made for her. But there were also the exigencies of daily life, work, and recovery (hers from surgery and mine from injury), and there were whole days where the new apartment sat waiting, as if forgotten.

We’d made extremely flexible plans for our beloved handyman to transport her mattress and piano and her many boxes some time in December. Because there was no urgency, and we were both lame, it was easy to put off actually sorting through stuff and packing those boxes. Until the day after Thanksgiving, when we learned that, thanks to upcoming surgery of his own, our handyman would be arriving with a truck and a crew in exactly four days.

Those days saw me working harder than I can recall doing in many years. And as they wound down, I realized that they highlighted so much: about myself, about my relationship with my daughter, and about my thoughts on the whole “empty nest” myth.

Here are a few of the things I learned about myself:

Some stress is good. I discovered that I’m like Goldilocks in this regard. When there was no pressure at all, I didn’t do much, but I spent an inordinate amount of time thinking about what I should/could be doing and worrying that it wasn’t getting done. With the immense pressure of getting it all done quickly, I was overwhelmed by the logistics and waking at 3 a.m. running through my mental checklists. My “just right” would have been somewhere in between the two.

My anxiety is mine. I still struggle with this, but I’m learning to be more aware of not reacting to stress by passing on my anxiety to others. Especially to my daughter. And, hello, if she’s not anxious about the move to her apartment, how ridiculous is it for me to be?

I still crave control. Is it because I felt for so many years that I had none? Or are we all like this to varying degrees? I still get so annoyed by both the minor glitches and the major catastrophes. I still strategize as if I might be able to control every unknown.

I’m beginning to embrace “good enough”.  Despite my need for control, I no longer aspire to perfection. Maybe there’s some yarn in the box of shoes, and maybe nothing is organized a la Marie Kondo, and maybe we’ll have to deal with some things after the “big move”. It’s all fine.

I forget that change can be difficult. I realize that, especially with big changes, I tend to focus on the positive so hard (I touched on that here) that the loss part of it has to eventually sneak up and slap me. So, I’ve only pictured the parts of my life that are going to be enhanced by this change. And I’ve imagined, incorrectly, that my daughter is doing the same. We may both be slow processors, but she is far more emotionally mature. Like Scarlett O’Hara, I’ll think about that part tomorrow.

Here's what I learned about my relationship with my daughter:

It’s as strong as I imagined. It’s not all roses and rainbows. We can drive each other crazy (we’ve probably both pulled ligaments from the eye rolling), but we never lose sight of what’s important. We’ve learned to communicate and quickly repair. I believe that in addition to deep love and gratitude, we also have a mutual respect for each other. And laughing together never hurts.

She’s been my hiding place. The onset of her chronic illness coincided with the implosion of our family, and for many years I threw myself into her care in an unconscious effort to avoid feeling the pain. As I began to emerge, I unconsciously hid from a scary new world by doing the same. I made her my life so that I didn’t have to deal with mine. I’m still taking baby steps toward maintaining my autonomy while providing the help she needs.

She will ask for that help. I am learning, slowly, that I don’t always have to offer. That doing so might transmit the message that she is not capable. She may always need assistance to live a full life, and that may come from me or others. My jumping in pre-emptively does no one any favors. I now know that when she truly needs my help, she’ll ask.

As for the “empty nest”:

Poor choice of words. It’s time for a new term (I prefer “fledging” or “launching”). “Empty nest” was obviously coined in an era when a woman’s sole purpose was deemed to be motherhood. While I loved being a mother, even when my domestic situation was challenging, I take umbrage with the notion that I’m likely to wither, adrift without the higher calling of active caretaking. Yes, I will miss certain aspects of our time together terribly, but I prefer to focus on the exhilaration we are both feeling (see above)

about what lies ahead. I’m excited for new discoveries for each of us and new rituals we’ll form together.

It’s time. It’s not just time for her to spread her wings; it’s time for me to put myself at the center of my life. I may have stopped hiding (mostly), but I realize I still sometimes lean on the excuse of her needing extra care to justify not doing so. To justify not taking that risk or having that adventure. To validate not taking the time to figure out exactly who I am and what I want.

It’s time, and I am beyond excited for both of us.

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Thanks for reading! Those of you who are parents, care to share your experiences with their liftoff?

An update: the move went smoothly a few days ago and we’ve already had one “date” that never would have happened were we still roomies.