By Marilyn Kentz
Bio
Every time one of my kids left home, it broke my heart. But when the baby goes—the last one—it’s just so-o-o-o empty.
In
my case, the last to go was the vasectomy-reversal baby. That’s right.
I asked my husband to get a vasectomy, then I changed my mind. I was
38, and my first midlife crisis was beginning. At that same time, my
boys were just about to become nasty teenagers. So, when I was 38, I
successfully pushed my little daughter into this busy world and bought
myself 18 more years of motherhood.
We had an extra special
bond. I think it’s because I taught her to be just like me—shallow. I
took her shopping, taught her to judge her teacher’s mood by their
shoes, taught her how to mix and match the expensive items with cheap
stuff and how to make everyone think you have thick hair.
We
got along so very well and I was lucky to keep her as my ‘best friend’
through what other mothers called those horrible teenage years. Don’t
get jealous—that was God’s gift since I had so many wild incidences
with the older brother! It was payback.
So you can only imagine
how overanxious I got every year my little one got closer to
graduation. I was lamenting, waking up in the middle of the night,
crying over love songs (yes, love songs) many years before ordering
that cap and gown. I was neurotic with a capital “N”. I’m sure my poor
friends must have been thinking, “Oh, forgodsakes, get over it.” I can
imagine the under-the-breath, “Oh no, here comes Miss What-Will-I
Do-Without-Baby—quick, look the other way.”
On graduation day, with tears streaming down my face as I ironed her gown, I pitifully faced the end.
Surprisingly,
on the day we took her to college, I was doing fine. I guess I had done
the correct amount of preparation or crying or antidepressants. Sure,
there were moments in Ikea when I would get a strong twinge of fear and
sadness, but I did what most married women do: I concentrated on how
irritating my husband was. (That’s a handy tip for those who still have
to look forward to the ‘last goodbye’.)
On the ride home, I was
shocked at how easy it all went. But just as the sun was going down and
the shadows were stretching eastward, I got this notion that, once that
sun disappeared, it was really over. This was the very last day I was
mommy—and I had only a few minutes left. My heart started racing. I was
trying to bargain with life. “No, I’m not ready after all!” As the
shadows were intensifying, so was my longing. And right at that moment,
the song on the radio unraveled me. Carol King began asking…“So far
away…. Doesn’t anybody stay in one place anymore?” The tears just shot
out. It was like I was vomiting out of my eyes. Every piece of sorrow I
had been ‘handling’ came up and out.
So I got out my emergency
Xanax. Wailed some more. Then opened the emergency vodka. All the way
home it was Weep—Xanax, Weep—Vodka. Six hours later, I arrived home
feeling just as I had hoped to feel—numb. I fell into bed.
The next morning, I mustered up my courage and went into her empty room. Do you know what I discovered?
Cool
things she left behind. Wonderful items I had given her—and some she
had taken from me. I took them out and started decorating.
Nothing perks up a shallow woman faster than decorating.