Published: June 03, 2008 11:09 pm         

Going our separate ways: a journal to my daughter

SMALL TALK

By Tracy Chesney



To my unborn baby: March 31, 1982



I waddled into your bedroom today longing for something that I haven’t experienced, something that wasn’t there. I settled my five-foot round beach ball self into the Bentwood wooden rocker, imagining that this would be where the two of us will spend most of our time. While I rocked back and forth, I rested my hands on my built-in table and admired your room

Your room waits patiently for you to give it life, and I wait anxiously, always praying for movement, for life. I’m sure you’ll let me know when you’re ready to be on your own. Just don’t claim your independence on April Fools Day.



April 3, 1982 – the day you were born.



You put up quite a fight to get out of your cramped quarters, but I knew you were aching for your own freedom, your own way to express yourself. I just wish you could have chosen some other manner. Finally you came into this world with a zest for life and inked black feet.

The doctor cut the cord while I was asleep and I though that a little unfair of him. I never signed a disconnection agreement. Somehow, life seems a little different since you’re no longer a part of me. I miss you from where you once where but love where you are at now.

I brought you home to your bedroom where you belong. I knew you were anxious to begin your life because you kept me up all night with the constant reminder that you were here. I was never ready to put you back in your own bed, because then you would be apart from me.



Aug. 25, 1987: your first day of kindergarten



The first day of school meant a one-hour closet search for that perfect dress. The white hand-painted dresser held all the necessary equipment that a kindergarten rookie needed. Ribbons, bows, curlers necklaces, bubble gum and hair brushes.

As I fixed your hair in front of the mirror, I looked into your eyes and told you, “You know. You don’t have to go to school today. You can stay home with Mommy, and we’ll bake some cookies.” But I could see the excitement in your eyes, so I took you to school.

After I dropped you off, I walked into your room and looked around. I hugged your Cabbage Patch doll and traced my finger along the wall of your crayon drawings of happy homes and rainbows. I flopped onto your white metal daybed and rumpled your Strawberry Shortcake covers. Scents of baby shampoo drifted up from your bed when I buried my head into your pillow. I must be coming down with a cold.



May 28, 2000: Your day of high school graduation:



Your new queen size bedroom suite, the suite I saved up for all year to buy for your graduation present, takes up most of your bedroom. I thought if you had a new bedroom suite, then maybe you would keep your room clean. A mom can dream, can’t she?

Your new dresser held all the necessary equipment that a teenaged girl needs. Earrings, makeup pictures of boys, a curling iron, more picture of boys and hairbrushes. As we stood in front of the mirror, I helped you try on your red and white graduation gown.

I looked into your eyes and told you, “You know. You don’t have to graduate today. You can stay in high school and graduate with your oldest brother. Then stay and graduate again with your youngest brother. In fact, you could just stay in high school forever.”

You had to go, though. I saw the look in your eyes when you spoke, “Oh, Mom. Don’t be so silly. It’s not the end of the world. I’m still here. See, I haven’t left.”



August 16, 2001: A week before you left for college



As you were packing all your belongings, preparing for college life, “chaos” wasn’t the word to describe what your room looked like. The word, “devastation” came to mind as I saw your life stored into cardboard boxes.

I taped a “Luann” cartoon by Greg Evans to your dresser mirror. In the first scene, the mother is standing in the daughter’s room reading a passage from a book to her, “Well, according to this book, at this stage in our relationship, your role is to make it easier for me to let you go.” The next scene shows the daughter lying on her bed with her room in total chaos. The mom says, “I just want you to know that you’re doing an excellent job.”

We got a good giggle out of the cartoon, but I had to leave the room to get a tissue. Was allergy season already here?



Sept. 7, 2001: two weeks after you left for college



I ran upstairs to your bedroom today looking for something to wear. I love the fact that we wear the same size clothes. because I look so hip, so cool, so “with it.” I flung open your closet door and it was empty. No clothes. No hangers. Nothing.

Only the pink and white Barbie-doll dress I made for your senior prom hung in solitude. A pair of filthy torn canvas sneakers lay haphazardly on the closet floor, the ones you wore to the prom after you sprained your ankle.

When I saw your empty closet, reality set in. Was this how Sampson felt when his hair was cut off? All his strength gone? You’re gone, and I can’t breathe. I went back to my room, and my closet seemed so empty.



Sept. 15, 2001: Three weeks after you deserted me



I heard the shower running upstairs at 6:30 a.m., and thought, “Oh, Sissy must be up taking her shower. I headed upstairs to sing my morning Vegi Tales wake-up song to you.

“Good morning, Sis, how are you. I hope you’re feeling fine. I’d love to stay and talk, but it’s almost eight o’clock, and I haven’t got the time…”

But you weren’t in your bedroom to sing the song with me. Thank goodness for cell phones. I’ll just call and sing to you.



Sept 21, 2001: four weeks after college life



My eyes were drawn toward your open door as I cleaned your brothers’ bedroom. Something seemed to be missing, but I couldn’t figure out what it was. I walked into your room and noticed that your bed was made, but I didn’t see any of your pillows or your old ragged teddy bear.

I looked around searching for something that wasn’t quite apparent to me. I even looked under your bed. All I found were nerf guns, golf balls and baseball cards.

Your silver crutches, reflecting the morning sunshine, still lean in the corner, waiting patiently for your attention, knowing that every spring you’ll sprain your ankle. Will you be back home this spring? May I borrow your crutches until you come home?



Oct. 5, 2001: Six weeks after your new life



I took a walk today. Not my usual 30 minutes morning walk, but a solitary hike upstairs into your bedroom. After I climbed the high altitude, I found I was able to breathe.

Your room hasn’t changed since you left. The ‘Luann’ cartoon still hangs on our mirror, and your graduation hat still hangs from the ceiling. You didn’t want to throw your hat up into air along with the rest of the graduation class. You were afraid to let go, afraid of losing something you cherished.

Before you left, I could feel you kicking and squirming, ready to breathe on your own, ready for life. This time, the doctor didn’t cut the cord. I did. You will always be a part of me, but once again, we go our separate ways.

As I left your room, my finger trailed across your dresser, collecting a month’s worth of dust along the way, leaving the door wide open.