Farewells, fossils and fast food
Anatomy of a marathon goodbye
My boy is gone. Yesterday was a very long day of driving and waiting, driving and waiting. I had envisioned an airport goodbye where the kids and I shared a last supper in the departure lounge. We would talk while eating Macca's or sushi and tell Finn how much we would miss him, and that he was doing something brave and good by leaving home in New Zealand and going to the States to live with his grandparents.
But Finn told me on the ride to Auckland that his friends were going to meet him near the airport to whisk him away for a couple of hours.
Instead of dinner, our trio ate donut holes before Finley ditched Fiona and me to ride around with his mates.
To be fair, Fiona commandeered the donut-time conversation, having just returned from university orientation in West Auckland. She wanted to recount everything she did and heard that day. "I had a lot to tell you," she would later say.
Fiona and I will be together all weekend, yet the boy is gone. Not that he would've said much, anyways. He complains that he and I are not friends like Fi and I are friends. I complain that he never wants to spend time with us. Chicken and egg, chicken and egg…
Guilt is motherhood’s twin. I feel guilty that parenting my eldest has been easier than bringing up her brother. It has always been this way. They say no two children have the same parent, a truism I have embodied ever since my son was born.
Where Fiona lives in a world of order and compliance, Finley exists in a hodgepodge of disorganization and defiance. How can you raise your children the same way when one follows instructions and the other missed your directives because he was either gaming or out with friends?
Finn is a product of nurture and nature, the unfortunate recipient of many of my traits like impatience and rampant sociability. For this, I am truly sorry, though I have not repented. Maybe later (procrastination is another attribute Finley and I share).
While Finley hung out with friends, Fiona and I walked 20 paces from the donut shop to McDonald’s, where we continued our health food parade, sharing fries and a frozen coke. I dunked my sorrows in four packets of ketchup.
Reunited at the airport, what could have been a long goodbye was reduced to ten minutes of crying and hugging. I wasn't ready for Finley to leave. I would never be ready.
We have plodded a goodbye marathon the past week. At the five-mile mark, no suitcase was packed, but the ‘finals’ began. Final overnights with friends, final dinners, a final spin on the moped.
Mile fourteen: Finley sold the scooter. “Sold or disposed of a motor vehicle,” screamed the website where I completed the form. It may as well have read, “Your son is leaving soon.”
I dabbed my eyes, remembering when Finley and I bought the scooter last summer in Paengaroa. We sweated and grunted while we helped the seller lift it into the back of a pickup truck.
I am seeking silver linings, considering the rituals I will no longer perform, at least for now. No more waking Finley in the afternoons, telling him he’s wasting his life. No more fossilized food in his room, like the pancake spread with lemon curd tucked into a desk drawer. No more sneaking out of the house wearing my jewelry, because even your mother’s bling looks cool.
Mile 20: little things like a box of cereal can crush you during transitions. Standing inside the corner market several days ago, contemplating cornflakes versus muesli versus Cheerios, I fought back tears. I can’t buy Cheerios. The box is too big and the little ‘os’ will go stale before I can finish them. Who will eat the cereal? Who will drink the milk?
Mile 26: it hurts so bad and I don’t want this time to end, but I’m also thrashed while pushing through the pain.
Fiona and I watch Finley walk away, headed for security where only ticketed passengers are allowed. There are some places you can't follow your child, even if you imagine your 16-year-old is still five.
A gazillion other parents have already endured this ritual. They survived. So will I. If my elderly teenagers are anything like young adults around the globe, they’ll be back. In Europe, the average age an adult child leaves home is near or above 30 in countries like Italy, Slovakia and Croatia. Kiwi kids in 2015 expected to live at home until age 27, a number that has likely risen in tandem with soaring housing costs.
When he’s finally out of sight and tears are still falling, Fiona turns to me. “It’s okay, Mom. We’ll see him in four months.” We already have tickets to visit Finley in Ohio at Christmas. We are very lucky to be able to do this.
And my son is fortunate to be able to try on a new life.
Go well, Finley. Please remember to call us, brush your teeth and lay off the pork crackling. We love you.
Wow, it is hard. at least we had a transition from university until A did a year abroad in Ecuador. I don't know when it gets any easier.
Hugs and love...
Beautifully captured xx