In August 1996, with the assistance of family, I dug every lodged piece of heart out of Knoxville I could think of, only to plant a big piece back in it just a few days ago.
These conversations keep arising at work. One of our newer professors has one daughter, and, when he sees how I am weathering firstkid's moving to college, he starts thinking about how he and his wife will feel when their daughter leaves for school. "You have two more kids at home," he said today, a bit wistfully, and I didn't tell him that they are feeling different feelings, too, the way the house is different, the curiosity of how firstkid will change, the anticipation of their times to leave, too. I haven't told the other two kids about these things, like the surprise of how my wife and I will suddenly seem to have aged a bit, even when they are gone only a couple of weeks, how small but comfortable the house will seem when they first get back, but how cramped it will be by the end of summer vacation, how much we will ache when they move to a home of their own and they cannot decide what all to take and what to leave behind. I could tell them, but they won't remember it when they need it, and I am not sure I could convey to them just what it feels like to get that independence and to feel the two-purposed tug of the family tie, a bond one sometimes strains against, a tether someone often relies upon.
About my friend's comment, though, yes, I am grateful that there are two more kids at home, yes, I dread the coming high school tensions that are going to happen, yes, I want them to have every chance firstkid has, but, no, I am not going to console myself that it will be any easier. I will appear a bit more stoic, I think, but I doubt that familiarity will make this experience blunter or duller.
It did feel kind of funny to text this message to firstkid, though: "Text your mom."
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