Another Goodbye

After spending a couple of weeks at home between the end of summer session and the beginning of the fall semester, my youngest child just pulled away from the curb and is headed back to Syracuse. She's been home off and on since May, but now she's leaving for the long haul. I thought saying goodbye to my kids would get easier. I thought after so much practice, I'd get better at it or I'd develop a tolerance for it.  But as soon as I came back inside after waving goodbye, I felt the familiar ache. The house suddenly seemed big and quiet and empty. And although we were together, my husband and I both felt lost and sad and lonely. It's not just because she's the youngest and will be the farthest away. The same thing happens when my middle child and his sweet girl drive off after spending a weekend with us. I even feel little echoes of it when my oldest and his pup leave the house after having dinner here on an ordinary weeknight. Maybe the reason you never get good at saying goodbye to your children is because you never stop missing them. You never stop wanting to hear their familiar voices and see their sweet faces. And maybe I will just have to live with that.

“There is something about poems that is like loving children: they keep returning home and singing to you all your life."  --Felice Holman

Goodbye, Old Friend

In the spring of 1999, we drove to Florida with our three kids, then 12, 9, and 6, sitting shoulder to shoulder in the narrow backseat of our Subaru wagon. That trip convinced us that as much as we didn't want to admit it, it was time to start thinking about a minivan. We held on for another two years, but finally in the summer of 2001, we made the leap and bought a Toyota Sienna.  We opted for quad seats, thinking it would lead to more peaceful car trips with the three kids. The boys immediately claimed the middle row captain chairs and relegated young Em to the third row. Over the years, however, that cozy seat in the way back became the coveted spot on long trips. We quickly realized why minivans were so popular--there was SO MUCH ROOM inside--for kids and dogs, for band instruments and sports equipment, for friends and grandparents. Then as our kids headed off to college, we hauled the backseats out and had space for a dorm-roomful of belongings. Later still when our kids started moving into apartments, we discovered that if we took out the middle seats, too, the good old minivan could hold mattresses, dressers, and couches. For that reason alone, we were hoping the van would last one more year so we could use it to move Em home from Syracuse next summer. But as its inspection drew near, the brake light and the ABS light joined the "check engine" symbol in lighting up the dashboard; the air conditioning hadn't been working all summer, and there was an ominous clunking noise coming from underneath. So after much debate, we decided it was time to part ways with our minivan. I was surprised at how sad I felt about trading it in--it has cost us a lot of money over the past few years with its seemingly insatiable appetite for oxygen sensors and exhaust pipes; it was big and clunky and no one ever drove it if the other car was available--but still, it had served us well. I admit I have a tendency to personify inanimate objects, but the van definitely looked sad and embarrassed as our car salesman made disparaging comments as he discussed the van's trade-in value. Now when pressed, I can acknowledge that cars don't really have feelings, but I still couldn't quite stop feeling bad about letting the minivan go even though we had a snazzy little Subaru parked in its spot in the driveway. As I tossed and turned during that night, I finally figured out that what was really making me sad: the realization that Steve and I don't really need a minivan anymore. Our kids are grown up; they have their own cars and their own lives. And even though we'll still take trips together from time to time in the years ahead, the five of us won't be sitting in our spots in the good old van, playing the jellybean game, eating pretzel rods and Mint Milanos to pass the time, and arguing over where and when to stop for lunch. What I was actually struggling with say goodbye to the days of the five of us hitting the road together in our minivan. (But I am still feeling a little worried about how sad the old van must be as it sits in an unfamiliar car lot in Jamestown waiting to be sent to auction.)