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[Jul. 14th, 2009|01:10 am] |
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Well, I'm more than sure that people are heartsick of the story of my daughter leaving home to live in Orkney with her much older boyfriend. But. It's finally happened.
I've been quite ill all week, feeling her departure looming on the horizon. I've had palpitations and headaches and a desire to curl up in my bed all day and night, hoping to ward off my goodbye to her. I know that grown up children leave home all the time. I know that, for many, it's even a time of celebration. The circumstances of it, and the feeling that this may be a big mistake ( and, as her mum, wishing I could protect her from it ) have made this feel like a heavy weight indeed.
I saw her a lot last week. She was here a lot of the time, just breezing in with her enormous smile and the curls ( which started off as a single curl on the top of her baby head ) framing her precious, happy face. Her arms would sweep around me and her brothers and the dog and cat and then she'd sit down, limbs stretched all over the sofa. ""Anything to eat, Mum ?"
After feeding her, she'd place her feet in my lap, like she always has, and I rubbed them and we laughed at their straightness and her funny big toes.
On Friday, I bought her a heart shaped necklace, made from dried, dyed and polished heather stems. It sounds a bit odd, but it was lovely, and she was visibly delighted with it. Seeing it round her pretty neck, against her olive skin, I felt so sad that I had to go into the kitchen. She'll wear it and think of us here, but she'll be far away. Still, I was glad that she liked it so much. "You don't need to buy me anything, mum. I know you love me." I smiled at her from the kitchen.
On Saturday, she came here with her boyfriend, who had driven down from Orkney on the Friday, to pick up some of her things. She rummaged in the cupboard, exclaiming over her remote control skateboarder and Ker-Plunk. She sounded as if she was about 10 years old. She finally decided to take her snake board, her keyboard, an old post office toy kit and some of her thousand scarves. Everything else she threw back into the cupboard saying she'd get them another time. I don't think she'll take them next time she's here.
We all went for a walk in Princes Street Gardens, except Matthew, who wouldn't answer his phone, and we sat in the sun with cups of tea, and then Amy ran about with Joseph. She laughed with Joe a lot all day. He's going to miss her terribly. I don't know if she realises how much she'll miss him.
We came back to the house and then, all of a sudden ( or so it seemed ), she was saying her goodbyes. I took her through to my bedroom and just looked at her. Her pale blue eyes looked back, steady and sad. I smiled at her and we just held on to each other. I could feel her tears dripping onto my shoulder. We cried for a wee while and I said a lot of mum type things. And then, she was gone.
The sadness will lessen, I'm sure. For now, it doesn't feel as if it will ever lift, but I know it will.
They say that, when you die, your life flashes before your eyes. I'm not sure if that's true but I do know that, when your children leave home, your life together flashes by as you hold them before they leave ; from the first moment you see their little face, through hilarious toddlerhood, Christmasses, first day at school, first day at high school, exams, holidays...all of it thunders through your heart in a matter of minutes.
I'd like Amy and her brothers to know that, despite never having any money and not being able to go on lots of holidays and sometimes getting exasperated by all three of them, these years of bringing them up have been the time of my life.
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