I remember the day my daughter, Kendall, became an adult. It was a Sunday. She was in her second year of college and came home to do laundry. She was serious, reading Don Quixote and describing it to me while applying copious amounts of stickies as reminders of the important parts. It looked to me like everything was important.
She told me she might need an extra semester to catch up because she declared her major late. Late was at the end of freshman year, which didn’t seem late. But what do I know? Things have changed in the last 35 years.
After she put her wet clothes in the dryer, we watched the last episode of a series we didn’t finish in the summer. Maybe I’m paranoid, but I felt like she was humoring me. We finished the show, and she went to fetch her clean clothes. She gathered her things to leave and gave me a weak hug. She generally likes to hug me until I tap out, and she left.
I was left with a hollow feeling. Maybe she was mad. Then I said to myself, “No, she’s all grown up.” She doesn’t need my support the way she used to. I was happy for her but sad for me.
My son Nick’s dependence stopped early in high school. With him, I was confused and hurt. I assumed I’d done something wrong. We had a different relationship. I couldn’t just come right out and ask him. I figured it out as we went along. I made so many mistakes with him. It was harder for me to parent a boy than a girl. Plus, he was my first child.
He’s a man’s man. I don’t speak the language or know the customs. So I made mistakes, sometimes big ones. I tried to make amends. I don’t think it worked. We don’t talk often. I’m proud of who he is and of the life he’s built for himself. While being excluded hurts, I hope he finds peace and we can talk again. I miss our conversations. He’s so funny and irreverent. He’s a writer and lives in Miami. He just finished his first book. The world he creates in his book is unique, and his descriptions are beautiful.
Kendall’s gone now, too.
I remember when she learned to crawl. She would try to crawl toward something but would end up crawling backward instead. She used to scream in frustration while we howled with laughter. It was pretty cute. Her brother would come to the rescue and do funny things that made her laugh hysterically so she would forget her irritation.
In elementary school, we called her Florence Nightingale. She was always the first one on the scene if someone got injured or if someone got their feelings hurt. She was always there, offering words of comfort. She’s wanted to be a school teacher since Kindergarten. A desire that she’s fulfilling now in college.
Kendall’s passion is music. If she’s sad, she listens to music and sings. When she studies, she listens to music. She would much rather sing with you when she gets into a car than talk. We’ve had many singalongs that way. Singing until we’re both hoarse. When she was little, her favorite show was the top 40 hits with music videos.
For her 6th-grade talent show, she sang The House of the Rising Sun and accompanied herself on acoustic guitar. It won’t mean anything to hear me say it since I’m her mother, but I’ll say it anyway, “She was phenomenal!” I always felt it gave her more confidence to be herself, if not to speak her mind.
In the 8th grade, she was bullied. She won’t talk about it now and wouldn’t much back then, either. She wouldn’t let me talk to her teacher and said it would be worse if I did. Looking back, I should have done it anyway. I know it shaped her. She wouldn’t let anyone push her around when she went to high school. The first week of freshman year, her math teacher was bullying a student, and she and some other classmates stood up during class in protest. She sat down when he said she would get a failing grade on the test. There are limits.
She also dated a boy named Kyle in 8th grade. She really liked him. He was her first kiss, although she was very secretive. He told her they must be 100% honest with each other. He was out sick for a week, and she started talking to another boy. When he returned to school, she told him she liked that boy too, and he broke up with her. I told her you don’t have to replay all your thoughts to your boyfriend, especially if it will hurt them, and you wouldn’t act on it anyway. Thoughts don’t matter. Actions do. On our way home from school that day, her best friend called and asked if she could start hanging out with Kyle. She lost her boyfriend and best friend within minutes, which devastated her but also made her tough.
Kendall joined the Be the Change Youth Coalition (BTC) in high school. It was a community service organization that tried to prevent alcohol, drug, and tobacco use in young people. She gave presentations to the Boys and Girls Club middle school students, worked with a mental health group, and held workshops for the community on various topics, where she and all the members of BTC gave presentations.
Kendall discovered that she excels at giving presentations, which will help her in her career as a teacher. She’s a quick thinker, poised, and speaks clearly. Her high school required multiple presentations per year. She did hers on lack of education in Sierra Leone, solitary confinement, the death penalty, and plea bargain reform.
Her Achilles’ heel was always an inability to speak up. At the doctor’s, she refused to talk. I knew how stubborn she was, so I spoke for her. Something I wish I could undo now. It’s created a lifelong reluctance to speak up. Although high school and college have changed that. It’s still not easy for her. Something simple like making a doctor’s appointment is difficult and requires a pep talk, a script, and support, along with my flat-out refusal to do it for her. Still, all her experiences helped her find her voice. Now, she is building on that in college by communicating with her professors and fellow students–asking for help and getting clarification.
Parenthood isn’t easy. There’s the poop and vomit and the constant mess, but what I really lived for was the conversations and the growth–from crawling backward to a driver’s license to the first day of college. Our conversations were, “Mama,” “Mommy, I love you,” “I want to be Hannah Montana,” and “I like a boy.” She also shared her hopes and dreams, “I want to be a teacher when I grow up.” It was my privilege to watch it all play out.
I think the hardest part is letting go. When I dropped her off at the babysitter at three months old, it was gut-wrenching. I cried during my commute every day for weeks. At each stage, starting with kindergarten, sixth grade, high school, and college, I hardened with each milestone to survive. It’s like when someone dies, a little part of me dies too.
I must remember that a beautiful adult relationship is growing between us. The little girl doesn’t disappear. She’s incorporated into the grown-up version, which will be as beautiful and rich, maybe more so, than the childhood relationship. Right now, we already have an adult-ish relationship. I must let her gain more independence, even though it hurts to let her go. If I did my job right, she’ll return stronger, more independent, and healthier, and finally, we can be friends.
For more information, see Empty Nest Syndrome and Tips for enjoying your empty nest.