Guided

Friday was the day. Naomi finished putting the more than one hundred required pieces (of clothing and gear) into her enormous duffle and staggered out the door and to the car. It was time to head to the Girl Guide Jamboree.

Michael needed to stop by his office on the way to the airport—pure torture for Naomi. She got tired of asking how long he would be and then wandered forward in the minivan, first to pretend to drive the car (which she did with the zeal of a 6 year-old) and then to cuddle in my lap with the sweet attention of a tiny child. We practiced her breathing exercises for when she got worried or couldn’t sleep: big belly breaths with something like a mantra: on the inhale “I breathe in my mommy’s love for me” and on the exhale, “I breathe out my daddy’s love for me,” (or switching them if that wasn’t working). I told her as long as she paid attention to her breath, we would be as close as if we were in the next room. We breathed together, my hand on her belly, until Michael came back to the car. Then we were off.

The airport was a seething mass of little girls in mint green pullovers. They were nervously holding their mothers’ hands, clustered in giggling groups, feasting on sugary snacks and drinks as their last indulgence for a while. A knot rose up in my throat looking at them—so many of them were bigger than my little girl, with the figures and attitudes of young women. And some of them were littler than my big girl, too, waist high and wide eyed; how could you send that tiny person on a plane and away for ten days? We were, as commanded, at the airport two hours before the plane (an absurdity here in Wellington where you don’t even go through security until you board). We wandered through the airport shops until Naomi had had enough—she wanted to sit with the other girls from the Kapiti coast troupes. So we went to where one of the billions of helpful adults had sent her, a cluster of girls playing cards and sitting on the floor near the window. Getting near the girls was enough, though, as it turned out. Naomi didn’t know any of the girls well, and she didn’t want to actually sit with them. So we sat near them and Aidan ate lunch (Naomi was too nervous) and she and I played double solitaire and chatted. We talked about how she would be in communication with me, and I gave her a lovely stationary set and stamps. As I held the package and talked to her about writing to us, I remembered the hundreds of times I had been given stationary, the imploring letters which had been attached to them. I heard come out of my mouth my father’s words, “I don’t care what you write to me—tell me anything at all about what’s going on for you. Just write, ok, Jenny?” Naomi smiled—as little Jenny had done—and promised. I can only hope her promise has more substance than mine ever did.

And then it was time to go. We inched our way toward the departure gate in a snaking line of mint-green. Naomi found the only girl from her troupe who was also going—a girl Naomi finds too clingy regularly but who, at this moment, seemed to be just right. We shuffled slowly to the edge of the security screening, to the PASSENGERS ONLY sign. “Do you have your boarding pass?” I asked. Of course she did. “Do you have all of your things? Your money? Your stationary?” Yes yes yes. Pose for a picture, last one—ok, one more, one more one more. And then she was through the gate and I watched her put her backpack on the belt, walk through the metal detectors, pick the bag up on the other side, and walk onto the plane. She didn’t look back.

I stood there and watched her grow blurry as my eyes filled with tears. Was I crying for all the times I had gotten on a plane to go from one parent to the other in the past? Was I crying for all the times she’ll get on the plane without me in the future? Or was I crying because at that moment, my precious first-born was fully out of my care and out of my company? This is the beginning of the next place for us, a place where her body and mind change from being a little girl to being more and more ready to go off into the world. I am a developmentalist; I love the way she is growing, love the big girl she is becoming. I love everything about this time with her. And, as it marks time for me, I miss what I’ve lost and all that won’t come again. Time rushes forward, beautifully, horribly, and we are swept into the stream of it. The alternative is stagnation and denial and a world I don’t want to live in. But for these ten days (now half way gone), Naomi and I are caught in different jetties and pulled by different currents. My heart pulls towards Sunday afternoon when I get to go and be caught up in the mint-green flood again as big and little girls are welcomed home. I breathe in my love for her. I breathe out her love for me. I hold Aidan tightly and count the minutes until my lap is overflowing again with two children, and I try not to count the years until my lap is empty.

PS:

Two emails from Naomi today:

The first one:
Dear Mom,
Please do not return this email. Please send me aletter instead.

The second:

Dear mom,
sorry about the last email. someone next to me pressed send. but please don't
reply to this email. i have not rieceved any mails from you. have you gotten
anything from me?
I have to go.
I love you.
Love,
Naomi