The day our daughter Anna left for college I dropped her off at the airport with her dad and older sister at 6:00 in the morning. I had done a heroic job keeping it together and acting like today was no big deal. I reminded her that she would be fine, and would do well. That her dad and I had confidence in her. That we knew she was ready. Whatever that means. I’d told her that I expected her to keep us posted on her classes, new friends she makes, and how she decorates her dorm room. I encouraged her to keep herself safe, and to have fun. Then I kissed her goodbye at the airport, reminding her yet again how very much I loved her and would miss her.
And then I spent the rest of the day trying to stay busy so that my mind wouldn’t have time to linger on things that would only bring the tears again. I kept telling myself that this was a normal transition in life. One that I’d known was coming. One that I’d already gone through once when her older sister, Kathryn, left home for the first time. And one that I would be experiencing time and again with each of our younger kids when their time came to leave home.
But my mind had another agenda. Throughout the day memories would flash unexpectedly to the screen. Three-year-old Anna proudly heading off for the first time to daycare next door. Eagerly getting herself ready for her first day of kindergarten. Excitedly dressing up for her first formal dance in middle school.
I’d bring myself back into focus on the day. Reminding myself to breathe. Even though breathing was a little more difficult today.
The next morning, after all the other kids had headed off to school for the day, I grabbed my cup of coffee and our youngest daughter, Kristall, who was 5 at the time, and headed out to the beach. I didn’t have an agenda for the morning other than to spend some time with Kristall and get outside before the rain started again.
At the beach we walked and visited. She alternated between walking beside me holding my hand, and darting off to investigate something which had caught her eye. We counted dead salmon lying among the grasses, and talked about how the seagulls eat well this time of year. She explored the taller grasses, looking diligently for more salmon carcasses. Only to announce, “Oh Mom! There another one!” each time she found one.
I breathed in the morning. Consciously appreciating this place which had been so wet and cold lately. Kristall busied herself picking up shells and counting waterfalls. And I found a spot to sit and write for a little bit.
Pretty soon she started looking up at the sky and cawing loudly at passing seagulls. When she heard an eagle screaming from its nest high in the tallest trees she spun around and, squinting up in the direction of the eagle, did her best to imitate it. I smiled, glancing up from what I was writing.
By the time I’d written a few paragraphs, Kristall had climbed up onto a nearby boulder. I tried to stay focused on what I was doing, while also keeping a watch on her adventures. Making sure she didn’t go any higher than two or three feet off the ground.
A moment later, she had shrugged out of her sweatshirt and was standing on the boulder holding her arms out to her sides, with her sweatshirt pulled tight across her arms like a cape. Out the corner of my eye I watched as she lifted her head to the sky, cawed again at any curious ravens or seagulls which happened by, and started flapping her arms.
I smiled.
She no longer noticed me. She was busy, communicating with the birds.
After more cawing and flapping, still keeping her gaze up at the sky, she suddenly leaped from the boulder. It was a dramatic take-off. But the flight deteriorated fairly quickly.
From the ground, she immediately turned to look at me. I lowered my head and pretended to be paying attention to what I was writing. Convinced that I hadn’t noticed, she quietly picked herself up and brushed off her knees. Then she climbed back up onto the rock.
The sequence continued several more times. Pulling her sweatshirt tight across her elbows like a cape, or maybe like wings; looking up at the trees and cawing; flapping her arms faithfully; and launching.
Each time, her efforts met with the same dismal result. And each time, she’d turn and look at me from her position on the ground. Then, convinced that I wasn’t watching, she’d get to her feet, brush herself off, and climb back up onto the rock.
I stayed on my nearby perch the whole time, watching. Working hard to give her the space and the confidence to try something new. Giving her the privacy to try, and fail, without embarrassment. Letting her dream, instead of quashing those dreams with helpful intrusions like, “You know you can’t fly, right?” Allowing her to be independent. All the while making sure she didn’t get hurt. Ready to rush in if she needed me.
As Kristall and I drove home from the beach that day I thought again about our daughter Anna. Who was also preparing for flight that day. I thought about all the work that has gone into her move to college. And all the emotions of these first few days as she tested her wings, and discovered that they actually do work.
And I reminded myself that my job there is pretty much the same as it was with Kristall that morning. To sit back and watch. To give her enough privacy to try, and maybe even fail, without embarrassment. To let her dream. Hoping she didn’t get hurt. Ready to rush in should she need me. Allowing her to be independent. And fly.
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