I started to write this early in the morning on a Saturday. It was the day after a marathon of driving up to Binghamton on Friday morning and moving Julia’s whole life into her new apartment. The day was filled with cleaning, unboxing, assembling, organizing, shopping, hanging shower curtains, more organizing, more cleaning… you get the gist.
That morning, with the second car full of stuff, we left bright and early, got our bagels and hit the road. This time, she was in the driver’s seat, getting one more practice in driving the 2+ hour trip because next time, she’d be flying solo. When we arrived, we unpacked the car and were tasked with turning the empty apartment replete with infinite boxes and bags, into a home away from home. There was a lot of work to do.
We spent a couple of hours wiping things down, inserting things into cabinets and spaces and put together a rolling cart for her kitchen. We took our first break, walked a couple of blocks in town and met a friend of hers for lunch. The neighborhood is a blend of run-down areas and emerging business: lots of restaurants and cafes are within walking distance amongst closed store fronts still empty from the pandemic. I was excited that she’d have ample places to eat with friends, and mindful that she’d have to be very aware of her surroundings. There’s a large college student contingent in that part of town, mostly upperclassmen like her. After lunch, we returned to the apartment and spent a few more hours chipping away at the seemingly never-ending list of tasks. I don’t do this much cleaning and organizing in my own house; it was a miracle I knew what to do.
Julia was excited for the next part of the plan: go to her favorite Vietnamese Pho restaurant for a bowl of brothy, noodly goodness. I was also excited because I hadn’t gone for Pho since I went with my mom in Houston. It was one of our favorite places to go together and I think I may have brought the girls there on one of our trips. The fact that Julia was now reintroducing it to me made me smile nostalgically.
As we sat in the restaurant, I thought a lot about my mom and how it felt like I was dutifully living up to my maternal charge: facilitating a smooth college apartment move-in. We ate a delicious meal together and went off to the next part of the plan: shopping at the super-Target (pronounced Tar-zhay).
That place is quite overwhelming. It’s a monster of a store, full of families and college kids all doing their move-in shopping, just like us. Neither one of us has much tolerance for long shopping trips, so we made quick work of our list, locating most of what we wanted, chucking it in the cart, and getting the hell out of there. After all, this was one of two shopping trips; there was no need to dawdle. We hauled everything to the car, back to the apartment, and set for round three of assembling and organizing. This round would be shorter, as neither one of us had much left in the tank, but it meant that Saturday would be much lighter and we’d have Dad there to help finish up.
Taking a break
On Friday night, as we dug into a pint of Ben and Jerry’s Minter Wonderland and then clinked two new plastic wine glasses from Tar-zhay with some Cabernet she was gifted by a friend, I was very aware that in less than a day, I’d be leaving her once again in the hinterlands of Broome County to spend her Senior/first grad school year studying, enjoying friends, and exploring the blossoming sense of independence that she has discovered in the last couple of years.
Since we love “making plans,” we had made our Saturday plan as we sipped the Cab and scooped the dark chocolate deliciousness that was sure to give me some gastrointestinal distress later. Breakfast at a local cafe, then more cleaning and shopping. Chris would join us later that afternoon with some things that wouldn’t fit in the car. He’d set up the tv, the Ring doorbell and security system that would surely keep her feeling safe, or at least give him some semblance of peace of mind.
I brought our blowup mattress, the one I don’t think I’ve ever slept on myself, but she has during sleepovers when she and a friend would snuggle in with their smallish bodies, talk and giggle, and fall asleep way too late. Now, it is a vessel for me to get a few hours of shut eye so I don’t have to go invest in the less-than-stellar, overpriced Binghamton hotel system.
Round two
My middle-aged, perimenopausal body has been waking me up at stupid hours of the morning, and Saturday morning was no exception. I slept okay floating on air, but even when you are exhausted and just want to get things done, the brain seems to be wired to go into task accomplishment mode. Instead of fighting it, I got up, deflated the mattress, and got to deep cleaning while my baby slept in her new bed. There’s something about bleach spray that lets you know that germs, for the moment, have met their match, especially when the former tenant left ample evidence of being a poor housekeeper. I hate the acrid smell, but at least you know some semblance of sanitation has occurred.
I gently woke my sleeping baby up at the prescribed time of 8:30 a.m. and gave her a full report of everything from my morning. As she slowly hobbled out of bed to use the bleachy bathroom, she uttered “You’re the best. I love you.” That felt good.
She took a few extra minutes to get ready and we went for a stroll to my favorite Binghamton eaterie. We discovered it last year on a visit; it’s always packed, has amazing staff and the pancakes are the size of dinner plates. We split a bunch of our favorites and discussed the game plan for the day. Dad was on his way to get some of the electronic stuff installed and go on one more shopping trip for things we didn’t get of Friday. Once he arrived, we spent the next couple of hours finalizing things and had one more meal together. Then, it was time to leave her be. Her apartment was set up and she was ready for school to begin. We hugged, I kissed her face a bunch, gave a few more reminders, and got in the car. It wasn’t the first time, but it doesn’t really get easier. This is part of the process of their growing independence.
Our mother’s daughters
What is interesting about this time of life is that for “someone my age,” I have a lot of energy. I can keep going if I’m on a mission. I have mental endurance that will overtake any tiredness my body might feel; it kind of washes over me and I go into Energizer Bunny mode. There will be an inevitable crash, but while I’m in the zone, I don’t stop for long. My mom had that kind of energy when she worked on big projects.
Thoughts of my mom kept running through my mind throughout the weekend; how she always took care of me at this age, seemed to be just a step ahead of me, but knew just when to step back. I feel as though I was trained, through both observation and DNA, to know just what to do here, like my brain went into “Ronnie” mode. I kept looking for things that would certainly need to be done, to set things up so that as Julia learns how to live in this place, she will learn to make it her own. The gift of empowerment is a force that can never be taken for granted and is best received when it is given out of love.
Through the process, I was careful to be mindful of the fact that this was her place. At the same time, I was also mindful of the powerful feelings of being overwhelmed that I knew she was managing rather quietly. The gift that Ronnie gave me was the intuition to, as smoothly as possible, know when to push in and know when it was time to step back. I had to learn how to use it over the years, sometimes the hard way (Julia’s adolescence was TOUGH), but it is more refined now. I can see the gratitude in Julia’s eyes. I can feel her absorbing Ronnie’s essence through me. At one point, she said “I am my mother’s daughter” and my heart grew 10 sizes because:
- 1. It’s true
- 2. She recognizes it
- 3. She’s not ashamed to admit it
- 4. The intergenerational connection is strong
In the end, the move-in marathon was a winning success. We left her happy, excited, only slightly anxious, and ready to grow over the next two semesters. Her life plan is forming slowly and she’s taking incredible strides to follow it. As a result, we are growing closer, sharing ourselves more as adults than parent/child, even though that relationship is still strong as well.
In one week, we will be doing the same for Sophie and our official empty nest chapter will begin. Another whirlwind move-in marathon, then, quiet. It will be delightful, I’m sure, enjoying that quiet knowing that my kids (growing adults) are going to be okay. I’m anticipating some significant adjustment, which I’m sure I’ll write about.
Stacey's Headspace 
Loved it.
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