Today we started packing up our home of 22 years in beautiful Pound Ridge. Going through this major life passagae of leaving the home in which my husband and I raised our babies is so much harder than I thought it would be. When I walked through the front door one June many moons ago when the 1990s had just begun, I had a 6-month little girl in my arms and a 1 1/2 year old son helping Mommy. Now they and their generation are the Millennials who are taking over the world with their creative power, ingenuity and innovation.
David and Annie are both headed up from NYC in a rental truck to bring up things my son no longer needs in his Brooklyn apartment (as if we want to store someone else's stuff at this point!). But you got to love it. This position as mother of my two beloved children rocks my soul and fills my heart. And the quest for change, the doubt, the downs, the charge forward together as a team and I am more in love than ever with my husband of 28 years. In moments of question, we text one another, "Team Brodnick!"
And this is why I'm crying when I make tuna salad sandwiches this afternoon. The bread is poised in the toaster for the moment the children roll up the drive in the U-Haul. In trying to use up everything in the fridge, I even threw some relish into the tuna salad. (The taster's spoonful was quite deee-lish.)
I'm teary thinking this is our last lunch on the deck in the house in which our children were raised. My daughter returns to Hawaii on a 7 a.m. from JFK Airport to resume her Teach-for-America position as a math and science teacher to 6th graders on a military base in Oahu. My son will return to his wonderful life as a young man in Manhattan, echoing the Frank Sinantra song, "New York, New York."
Andrwe and I continue packing. Stopping to cry between loading boxes. Smiling when we think about how happy we are to be making a change and moving to a new chapter.
Humbled by our love. Grateful for our opportunity. Love, love, love has brought us all to this time and place.
I hear the U-Haul coming into the driveway. (Anyone have a tissue so that I can dab up the running mascara?)
I won't cry over lunch. I won't put on any Graham Nash. I'll stash the tears and show the children how exciting it is to begin new chapters.
When we drop them off at the airport and the train station tomorrow, I'll cry in the car. Cars are perfect crying rooms.
It's all good.