For the Parent Who is Waiting

Exhausted and self care depreciated, three weeks into summer, I sent them packed

Five shirts, five shorts, bathing suits, and socks

Ready for quiet time and catch up chores

Relieved to press pause on coordinating and ride shares and pick ups and drop offs

Hugged them tight, twice, before watching them go

And whispering “Look out for one another”

As I watched my heart travel down the dirt road

And the lump in my stomach migrated to my throat

My left leg shook as I considered the weight of being a parent

Fast forward 24 hours, I slept in

But woke up 7 times, wondering who I needed to get up and where they needed to be

No noises as I wandered into the kitchen, poured the coffee

Peered into my son’s room and thought how I could not wait for them to come back

Decided I would clean and organize their closet

Make it a nice space for them to come home to

I stacked their Pokemon cards and organized their fighter jets, racked their Nerf guns and sifted through the dirty socks

Changed their sheets and folded their blankets

Squeezed his baseball pillow and stacked his soccer books

Waiting for my boys

It’s so quiet here

I keep my phone close, in case they need me

And act relaxed as my husband walks in to grab lunch

While I fold their laundry, and match their socks

Praying come back soon

So I sit, and write, and do my chores

Make a greek dinner with my spouse

Cuddle our dog, who is our acting emotional support animal

Wondering is this how empty nest mothers feel

I walk outside to check on the garden

Water my dying hydrangeas and admire the watermelon

You’re stronger than this worry, I tell myself, as I let myself think “What would I ever do if…”

But mothering isn’t about control

It’s about the waiting. The patience. The feeling through it

So, I wait

The phone lights up on the way to dinner

It’s my daughter’s face, surrounded by wild, blonde curls

Answering quickly, she smiles and says “Hi Mommy!”

My resting heart beat slows and I feel safe again

As I relax into watching her fight with her brothers over the phone

That is the chaos that feels like home

It comes time for her room, the baby of the family

I sift through leftover diapers, all the sizes, even swim nappies

Wondering how it’s possible we have moved on from the era of infant and toddler

Stack up her buffalo stuffie and Minnie Mouse

And say “She has way too many”

I haul the baby clothes out of the closet

Sad she grew too fast to wear them all

Place her recital tiara atop the Jane Austen book that is her name

And close the door softly

Waiting for her

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