I lowered my window as I began the ascent onto the first bridge I was forced to drive leading to my beloved home on Isle of Palms. I moved to the interior lane and far away from the Cooper River that I knew was waiting to gobble up the first car that parachuted off. The wind blew my hair across my face. I reached up to push it back and simultaneously wiped away the tears that had been forming in my eyes.
For the past hour I had been thinking about my now adult children and how much I loved them. I loved them; I missed them; I knew this was part of life. Oh and, I really like hanging out with my husband…
But I also was missing something else. Over the past year, the number of phone calls and daily texts has decreased. Sometimes I send a text and don’t get a response. (EGADS! It's not like they don't have school and jobs, and I might be an overly enthusiastic labrador puppy texter.) When they don't respond, I have to utilize all my willpower, deep breathing, therapy practice, and prayer so I don’t text again either a) passive-aggressively, b) attempting guilt, c) groveling, or d) asking if they’re mad and apologizing for some unknown “sin” I have committed. Sometimes it even works….the not giving in part....
As I pushed my hair and tears off my face, I broke into a grin. I remembered an evening in early September 1998 when I came home with a ridiculously over-priced (but dare I say darn tootin cute) diaper bag. Keep in mind, at this point we had one child who was just 3, one who was 13 1/2 months, and one on the way. I put it on the dining room table forgetting to hide the price tag.
From the kitchen I heard my usually very calm and soft-spoken husband yell, “HAVE YOU LOST YOUR EVER LOVING MIND?!?!?!” (He did not say “ever-loving.”) I walked into the dining room, “What?” “Katherine,” he tried to calmly say, “First we do NOT have $145.00 to spend on this, this, this THING! And second, we must have half a dozen diaper bags not to mention all the OTHER BAGS that continue to reproduce in this house.” “But, I needed this one.” I told him, “It’s a matter of life and death.”
I think at this time he might have poured a bourbon, sat down, and waited for what he knew was going to make sense to only one person—-me.
“See,” I began, “We’re going to the beach next week, and I started thinking. When I am driving without you if the car goes flying off the bridge and into the water, I only have two hands. Right now I can grab both Sarah Katherine and Boss—one under each arm and get us safely to the surface. BUT, when this baby is born, Boss will only be 17 months old, Sarah Katherine will only be 3, and obviously this baby will be a newborn. This diaper bag is big enough that I can shove the baby into it. It’s waterproof and has long handles I can put around my neck. I can grab Boss with one arm, Sarah Katherine with the other telling her to hold on tight. And you know she always does what we tell her, and then I can swim us all to the surface and save our lives. Don't you want us to survive?”
Now I don’t know what Chris said at this point, but I did get to keep the diaper bag….
As luck would have it, 17months after William was born, Caroline came along. Thankfully I still had the diaper bag. For the others, I might have put water wings on them as we were driving over bridges, and I might have insisted windows were always to be rolled down—you know because the power windows won’t work underwater. (I have since moved from that to carrying a hammer, but NOW I have a tool made especially for this purpose which proves I am not crazy.
I kept thinking about all the trips we have taken over these bridges and many other bridges and how they never questioned that windows came down, and if I could convince them it was better to go ahead and have their water wings on so we could run straight to the beach even before Mommy unloaded the car, well, that was a small price to pay to make sure they survived the harrowing trip. (I didn’t tell them that part.) There were times, however, I would casually mention if we were ever in deep water and Mommy was trying to get us out, they should just hold on but not scratch me or push me under. (Obviously, I did not tell them that at the same time we were crossing bridges. For pete’s sake, I didn’t want to scar them!)
As I crossed the IOP connector (and praise God the final bridge), I finally got it. They were living their lives. They were doing well. They stayed connected to me, Chris, and each other. We still are connected, and it is different. We have plunged into a new way of being. Chris and I have crossed a bridge to the other side of being a parent. They may take a few dives off their own bridges. (Caroline has told me the saying, “If everyone jumped off a bridge would you?” Is actually ridiculous because OBVIOUSLY she would wait until everyone else did, and if they survived and had fun, of course she would jump.) Anyway, I have to let them do that in their own way. If I don’t—if I insist on trying to control, to protect, to save—well, then I’m the one scratching, clawing, and pushing them under.
Swim sweet babies swim.
