Kudzu Queen
What if you were a planet, and the star you orbited around suddenly went POOF! and was gone? You’d lose your center of gravity and likely go careening off into empty, subzero deep space blackness. Blackness utterly devoid of light or warmth.
What if you were a mom, and your child went off to college?
Same thing.
God help me. Veronica has gone off to college.
She went early, because she is going to school in another part of the continent. She has paternal family there who will help her get settled in, and who will speedily come to her aid if she has a problem. They are good people. I trust them, and I appreciate them. But do they know what to do when V. gets cramps? Or when her ear hurts? Do they know the specific flavors of liquid jell-o V. likes when she is sick? Don’t try to give her lime, now. Or grape. It’s got to be cherry, strawberry or raspberry. Do they know that talk radio in the car makes her carsick? Do they realize that she likes to sleep at 68 degrees, and that she does not use a pillow?
Do they even have the special type of face wash V. likes, way up north? Because regular bath soap will break her out, for sure.
If somebody in her dorm is mean to V., will her paternal family storm up there in a rage and turn the whole place out? Will asses be kicked and names taken, if anybody hurts my baby?
James Taylor wrote, “Every now and then the things I lean on lose their meaning, and I find myself careening into places where I should not let me go.”
Surely JT was writing about his kid going off to college.
I remember when Veronica was a newborn. Somebody had made a terrible mistake, by entrusting me with a precious life. I was fully terrified. When I looked at the calendar and realized that V. was three weeks old, I rejoiced to have kept her alive that long. Holy cow. Maybe this thing was do-able, after all.
I excoriated myself mercilessly over every parenting mistake. I gave her a slice of bacon too early, and she choked, before spitting the half-chewed slice out. In the interim, I had 15 heart attacks and nine strokes.
I was not anticipating how speedy she could ZOOM on her baby-wheel-thing, and she almost catapulted down the three porch steps. I wondered seriously if I should give her over to foster care, to more capable people. People who could at least keep her alive.
I remember the nightmare of finding day care when I worked at a hospital. Just try finding a babysitter for Christmas Eve, or Thanksgiving. I remember retaining a teenaged babysitter from the neighborhood for my 7-3 hospital shifts. And I’ll always remember getting the call that Veronica had a head injury. The teenaged babysitter wasn’t very specific, but she was obviously freaked-out. I called a neighboring mom and asked her to go assess the situation.
“I can’t tell how bad it is,” the mom said, “There’s too much blood to be able to tell.”
I remember driving 100 mph home.
It turned out to be a superficial head wound. Head wounds always bleed a lot, and make a grand impression.
I waited for the x-rays and the doctor’s diagnosis, terrified to the marrow of my bones.
Finally it was over, and I took V. home. I went to wash her blood-caked hair, gently.
“No, Mom!” V. said. “Leave it like it is. I want to show everybody at school.”
I remember V. being 3 years old and us living in this hellhole called Madison, Ohio. All of our neighbors were freakishly scary. I don’t know if it had anything to do with the nuclear power plant that loomed on the horizon or not, but trust me, these people were SPOOKY. And I don’t spook easily.
I finally made some semi-not-spooky friends, and was invited to share the Fourth of July holiday with them. I was SO goddamn grateful to have made some semi-normal friends, I lost all my good senses. The new friends began passing out fireworks to all the 3 year olds present. I wanted to object, but I very badly wanted to make friends. I told myself, against my better judgment, that it would be OK.
Of course my child was the one who ended up getting burned and requiring an emergency room visit. The German-born physician told me, “You Americans are so stupid, letting children play with fireworks. It makes no sense. How could you do this?”
And he was right. Every time I changed Veronica’s bandage, I replayed his words in my head. How could I have done this?
I still kick myself for that one.
I remember grumbling about having to take V. to this game or that dance or this other volunteer thing. I remember griping about this or that expense. As if I had anything more important to do with my money or my time. I DIDN’T.
So now V. is gone. She is fledging, trying out her adulthood wings. I don’t have to transport anybody anywhere, and I don’t have to pay fees for anybody’s sports or academic extracurriculars. I don’t have to share the bathroom with anybody. I can go and sit in the bathroom 24/7, if I want to. I can play my stereo as loud as I want.
And like JT said, “Every now and then the things I lean on lose their meaning, and I find myself careening into places that I should not let me go.”
I am trying hard to make sense of this new world. The world without a center for me to orbit around. The world that doesn’t seem to make any damn sense. My studied conclusion is that this empty nest shit sucks, really bad.
Contact Tamara Ducote at TDDucote6@aol.com.
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