I am glad she is backing on out of the driveway before she notices the tear trickling down my cheek. She's driving off so confidently headed into her second semester of college. Head high, shoulders back, chin up, the epitome of humble confidence and measured self-assurance. I want to cry but that smile of hers is encircled with her signature scarf. The familiar toot of the horn reminds me that she loves me and she loves her life. For both I am happy. Grateful.
I watch the tail lights until they disappear over the top of the hill. The youngest child is the last of more than twenty family members to leave, that have woven themselves in and out of the Christmas season. Maybe now would be a good time for my meltdown that wasn't convenient in September when my baby left home. With concern about the readiness of her housing, a sister's eminent wedding and other family drama at the time, I was distracted from fully embracing the reality of my little one leaving the nest. And so with waves of nostalgia welling up inside, I am poised for the floodgate of emotions that all mothers attempt to suppress with the tension of joyfully launching their children and the ache of letting them go. I grab a tissue and head for my perch on the end of the sofa, pulling the afghan and memories close. I take a deep breath and prepare to indulge in good, cleansing cry.
The phone rings. A recorded voice proceeds to tell me how the caller has been trying to reach me to schedule the delivery of my senior citizen emergency alert device kit. OMgosh! A senior citizen! That's me! How did they find me and just what is an emergency alert device kit?
Where was this kit when there were at least eighteen people lined up for the shower and we ran out of hot water? Is there a secret alert code to find the giant-size roll of Syran wrap that a kitchen helper tucked away...somewhere? How about a device to meter coffee consumption so the supply meets the demand of groggy sleepers stumbling into the kitchen, or one to charge all the in-house digital devices at the same time? Does the kit have directions on how to gracefully say good-night before someone else gets hungry? And is it considered an alert if one of the grandchildren announces she is eating Mentos and drinking Coke at the same time? What about the emergency of how the health department is going to close us down if we do not do something about excavating our way out of mounds of sheets and towels and wrapping paper and dust bunnies?
Obviously I can do without a pity-party more than I can survive without the senior citizen emergency alert kit. I laugh instead of cry. Foiled again. No reason for tears when the house echoes with laughter and a literal trail of reminders of loved ones having come and gone.
Bring on the kit.
