Finding Her Wings

There are boxes, bags, totes, crates and drawers piled in my living room, garage, and by the front door.

The Princess is moving to college.

I can see the top of her dresser. She has a dresser? Why were her clothes always on the floor? I can see the floor in her room. She has carpet?

I knew this day was coming, obviously. But it seemed so far off.

I blinked, and it was here.

She hasn't asked me for help and I haven't offered. I did not want to intrude, to boss. Something told me this was something she needed to do for herself.

So when she packs the ridiculously high, sparkly prom-dress heels, I don't say anything. I raise an eyebrow, because, really? But I don't say anything.

I figure this is part of her journey. We all have to learn that less is more, or so I've been told. Not that I believe it, either. This is something she needs to do, something she needs to learn.

I am so proud. And slightly annoyed. She could call to get the utilities for the apartment hooked up, but still needs me to make her dentist and hair appointments?

And proud.

Distracted by the growing, and well organized piles, I gave her the puppy dog face once today. I let the mask fall, let my bottom lip stick out, let my eyes grow wide, just long enough to see that flash of recognition on her face. I quickly stuck my tongue out and crossed my eyes. Just kidding, I pretend. I turn away, close my eyes, and take a deep breath. I do that a lot.

I remember my mom sending me to college (pre-texting), sending me to grad school five hours away (for a short time). She wanted me to stretch my wings, to soar, but was there to welcome me back. I miss her. I miss her as much as I want The Princess and The Prince to go, to find themselves, to stretch, to soar, to fly.

And.

To remember.

I love them.

The Princess is moving only 30 minutes away. But she's no longer right down the hall. She's no longer right around the corner.

She's been to camps, conferences, and retreats.

Why is this different?

A friend who has successfully fledged four children admitted to being misty eyed after dropping off her daughter – the youngest and her only little girl – at college. And she admits to feeling a bit silly, knowing she was only 15 minutes away.

It's not the mileage, it's the symbolism, I think.

This is what we've raised them to do, my friend tells me. Other Moms – Moms with fledglings and near fledglings and hatchlings and grand-hatchlings – repeat the sentiment.

This is what we've prepared them for.

But who prepares us?

**

The Prince, as if by unspoken understanding (then again, siblings share without speaking), has rediscovered a tolerance for my presence. (Moms being the un-coolest of the un-cool when it comes to teenage boys asserting their independence, even more so than for teenage girls.) He lets me take him to McDonald's, lets me pay (OK, that part's not new), and even lets me sit with him – in public – and talks to me – in public. Although not when his friends are around.

He helps me move the final truck-load, despite initial resistance. He arranges the load, relishing the role of Man of the House, using half a roll of duct tape to secure a garbagebag-covered laundrybag, full of clothes. He smiles and shrugs, knowing I will laugh.

He is in charge of F-I-S-H Homie Quan the Second, so named because we didn't want to tip off the C-A-T, who, as it turns out couldn't care less. The Prince takes his job very seriously, transferring F-I-S-H to the transport cup and holding F-I-S-H's temporary home during the move.

He has looked forward to this day; looked forward to expanding into her room or at least to the end of her encroaching on his already miniscule room. No more crap piled in his doorway – although I leave one slim box destined for recycling. Just because.

The Princess has been his tormentor, his ally, and most importantly, the one to share and deflect parental attention. The Princess enjoyed three years as an only child, now it's his turn to take center stage.

He rolls his eyes. No. He does not want an F-I-S-H. The C-A-T, which his sister lobbied so hard for, is responsibility enough

**

Tonight, the piles have been moved. The last I saw them, they filled a new room. I took a long look at the carpet, knowing it would be the last time I saw it so clearly. 

The house seems quiet and empty – not just because The Prince is at band camp and The King is away on business.

The cat prowls restlessly. His favorite hiding place – under The Princess' bed – is gone. He has been a fixture in her room these last few weeks. Whether that was because of the construction going on downstairs, or because he sensed a change, a need, is unclear. He is on the stairs now, watching the door. Waiting for someone.

**

When we left, the girls were laughing, struggling to hook up the Wi-Fi, meeting their neighbors, making plans for tonight.

The Prince and I ate a late lunch, talking Olympics and music and motorcycles and cars.

This is what we've prepared them for.

This is what they've prepared us for.

Yo No Hablo Teenage Boy-O

When the children were little I wished they came with instructions.

I realize that was a very silly wish. They don't listen to instructions, and I never read them.

They are both teenagers now and I know what I really need is some sort of Rosetta Stone for teen speak. Or teen non-speak, as the case may be.

The Princess is getting easier to understand. I'm not sure whether that is because she is quickly approaching the end of her teenage years, or because I have some personal experience with teenage girl speak. She may not want to believe it, but I once was a teenage girl myself. It's like they say: if you learn a language as a child, you never completely forget it. Teenage girl and adult girl also have some common linguistic components.

I remember, or have learned, that a girl-child can change the meaning of the word “Mother” simply by changing which syllable is emphasized (“MO-ther” vs. “moth-ER”). Likewise, the volume, tone and spoken length of any individual sound (“Mmmmmmmmother” vs. “Motherrrrrrr” for example) can be altered to adjust the meaning.

Teenage girl non-verbal communication is just as, if not more, complicated. The simple eye roll can have many and varied meanings, from “I can't believe you're such a dork,” to “of course I love you.” Sometimes it can have more than one meaning simultaneously.

When it comes to The Little Prince, however, I am completely at a linguistic loss. Yo no hablo boy-o.

The Little Prince has become a surly foreign exchange student skulking about our house, leaving his room only to procure food (to take back to his room) or to scowl at the printer. He speaks an undocumented dialect of an unrecorded language that, for all of its complexity apparently consists of only three phrases: “Uh-huh" (affirmative?), "Nuh-uh" (negative?), and "Dunno" (everything else). His eye rolls, shoulder shrugs and grunts are in a dialect that is completely different than his sister's.

Last night, when I returned from a four-day absence, I stood, smiling, in his doorway waiting for a “Hi, Mom! Welcome back.” What I got was an impatient “Yeah?”

I hugged him anyway.

It's hard to believe that this towering stranger, with facial hair and deepening voice was once my cuddly, little boy. OK, so he was never that cuddly, but he was the little boy I held tight in my mother-arms. The little boy who exactly matched and filled the little-boy shaped space that had been formed in my mother-heart.

Now my head rests against his shoulder on the rare occasion when I am able to ambush him from behind to wrap him up in a tackle/hug. More often than not he turns around and heads the other way when he sees me coming. Much like dogs sense fear, teenage boys sense incoming Mom hugs. Although, sometimes I like to think that his evasive maneuvers are purposefully a step slow, or that he waits an extra beat before attempting an escape, allowing me time to sigh contentedly as that little-boy shaped space fills in once again.

This morning he stopped by my desk as he headed out the door to school. For a moment he just stood there looking at me expectantly.

“Do you need something, honey? ” I asked, my Mom-radar pinging away.

“My laundry basket is overflowing,” he said.

“Well, I'd be happy to teach you...” I started, my temper flaring.

Then I saw the smirk on his face, and I understood him perfectly. No translation was needed.

I love you too, Little Prince.

Shorts Shopping Short Shrift

After fourteen years on this earth, The Little Prince has decided to wear shorts.

When he was a baby I could dress him in whatever I wanted, but as soon as he was able to stomp his little foot and open the dresser drawer by himself, he declared a moratorium on shorts. In the grand scheme of things this non-shorts stance was not a problem. As long as he wore something on the bottom part of his torso I was happy.

In the mom scheme of things this non-shorts stance was a problem. You see, I am the therMOMeter. If I am cold, the children should put on sweatshirts. If I am hot, they should wear shorts.

They, however, have a different view of things. I carry a sweatshirt with me on even the hottest, most humid days Iowa can conjure up in July and August. They will consent to putting a sweatshirt in the car when we head out in the middle of a January blizzard.

So when The Little Prince announced he wanted to wear shorts, I nearly tore the door off the hinges in my haste to get him to the mall before he changed his mind. We returned victorious after a no-frills, fast break offense shopping trip: one store, two shoppers, three pairs of shorts.

I was not quite as excited a week later when he announced that he needed more shorts because two of the three pair (already de-tagged and washed) didn't fit.

I swear he tried them all on at the store, but I was so thrilled he was even considering shorts that I might have been hallucinating. There is also a chance that he was tired of trying on clothes and, having found one pair in a size that fit, assumed that any pair in that size would fit. A seasoned veteran knows that even two identical items of clothing – the same size, brand, style, and color – will not necessarily both fit. Only the clothing manufacturers that control that particular ring of hell could tell you why.

Shopping Trip #2: We found ourselves back at the same store, looking for the same shorts, different size. The level of enthusiasm was not quite as high this time.

“The shorts that didn't fit, I'm assuming they were too big?” I asked as we wandered around looking for the racks and racks of shorts that were there just a week earlier.

“Eh.”

“So, what was wrong with them?”

“There's too much fabric,” he said.

“So, they're too big,” I spoke slowly and clearly, because obviously he did not understand me the first time.

He shrugged.

I decided to try a new approach.

“When you put them on, can you hold the waistband out away from yourself like this?” I demonstrated pulling on my own shorts. “And is there enough room to fit another person in there?”

“Mo-om,” he said, rolling his eyes the way his sister taught him.

Despite his utter lack of help, I finally found a variety of sizes for him to try on.

“Those have too much fabric,” he said, pointing at the wide legs on one pair. Ah ha! Too much fabric! Now we were getting somewhere. Maybe.

“Well, they are cargo pants... with cargo pockets... just like the ones you have on,” I said, gritting my teeth.

He shrugged.

I put that pair back.

“And those are too short,” he said, pointing at another pair.

“You haven't tried them on. How can you tell they're too short?” I asked.

“The tag says 'above the knee',” he said.

“But they're....” I compared them to the pair he had on, which were exactly the same length.

He shrugged. Back on the rack they went.

That left two pair for him to try on. They both fit nicely, I thought. But he looked miserable.

“Do you think they fit?” I asked.

“I guess.”

“Do you like them?”

“Eh.”

“Will you wear them?”

“No.”

“Then don't get them!” I growled, admitting defeat and wondering how much alcohol I could buy with the money we weren't spending on shorts.

“We could move to Canada,” he suggested, a smile brightening his face. “Then I wouldn't have to worry about shorts!” I'm not sure that reasoning is sound, but I seriously considered it for a moment.

We returned empty handed from that trip, but I had a plan: next time we would take The Princess with us. For some unknown, sibling-only reasoning, he will take fashion advice from her (probably because she lovingly threatens to “end him” if she doesn't like what he's wearing).

Shopping Trip #3: I turned the two of them loose in Young Men's and followed at a discreet distance. That is, until I heard peals of laughter. They were looking at everything except what they were supposed to be looking for, and The Princess had picked out two t-shirts – from the Young Men's sale rack – that she assured me she could not live without. When I reminded them of their assigned task, she tossed one pair of shorts at him and took off for the Junior Girl's section.

After much searching and bullying on my part, The Prince selected cargo shorts in dark grey, light black, and charcoal. Identical to the pair he had on.

As I waited outside the dressing room I realized that, this being August in Iowa, shorts-wearing weather will be drawing to a close soon and we'll have to head back out to buy long pants.

Or I could move him to Mexico. Then he wouldn't have to worry about long pants.