Changing spaces

I drummed my fingers on the table. Tapped my foot in imperfect time with the music. My thoughts jumbled an informal to-do list until I decided to finally write it down.

There was so much to do before we left and I didn’t want to forget a single thing.

I was filled with nervous energy because in just a three-hour drive (give or take some traffic) we’d be reacquainting ourselves with our daughter, who had, only a month and a few days prior, packed up just a smidgeon of the top-tier elements of her personal collection and moved them to a dorm room in Boston.

First things first: I had to locate the black, down jacket she’d need now that the temperature was dropping; and the red, bedazzled tights that would certainly not keep her warm in this year’s Halloween costume. 

She had directed me to her things as if she’d had them mapped. The tights would be in the topmost drawer of her dresser. The coat would be hanging up. 

I stared straight into her closet, but I couldn't see past the things she’d left behind: Things I’d bought her. A library of children’s books, a zoo of stuffed animals, a rack full of clothes that still fit her body but no longer fit her style.

And for the very first time since she left I understood that she doesn’t live here anymore.

Once I find this jacket … and the tights … 

“Oh … if you could bring the curling iron with the small barrel, too, that would be great. You should find it in the bookcase, bottom left basket.” 

Where in the … ?

Voila. There it was. The curling iron.

“Oh .. and some clothes hangers. I don’t know why mine keep disappearing.”

Once I fit the clothes hangers into a bag with the other items I’ve unearthed from her room, I would reckon with my nerves.

The last time I’d been this nervous was just before I met her. I had so many questions.

What kind of mother would I be? What kind of relationship would we have? 

Of course, I didn’t take the time to thoroughly explore these questions that flit through the minds of so many parents while we are still elbow-deep in diapers and daycare until we are surprised to find ourselves tiptoeing through a proverbial teenage wasteland. 

My daughter will only be a teenager for a moment longer. 

Which is the overwhelming feeling I have as we reach her address and wait for her to make an appearance. She is smiling as she exits the building and jogs down the stairs. She gives each of us a hug. Mine is extra long.

We have so many plans for this weekend. Dinner reservations. Tickets to a home game. Plans for shopping and sightseeing.

But as much as we have been excited to see her again, she has been preparing herself, too.

It’s a delicate reunion. 

We are a different family here and she is the first to know it. In as much as we have prepared to visit, she has prepared to receive us. We are in her city now.