Saturday, January 2, 2016

Not the Mama

Our mellow, happy, extremely grounded daughter, came home with a southern boy.  I knew he was the one because I didn't like him at first--which means nothing about the boy--it's an uncanny aversion/intuition for the boys who steal my daughters away from their mama.

After the first meeting and the initial mis-judgment, I love the boys (almost) as much as my daughters love their men.

This boy whom our daughter brought home, was unusual--unusual like my daughter, and they seemed to fit each other as perfectly as a well worn pair of favorite jeans. How did this miracle of discovery happen? How did they happen to find each other-living on opposite coasts? It was as if they had been made for each other, and I so believed this that one day I realized she had never been mine--I had only raised her for him. It felt like a great privilege and a great heist.

These past few days were spent with our daughter's new family. Lovely people, and they love my daughter--all I could ever ask for. She fits in; she flows, she feels like she's theirs.  And someday she will be. A southern woman. All theirs. When and if they are blessed with children, they will be little southerners.

When they first decided to marry, our future son-in-law, informed us that after his schooling, his goal was to return to the south and if possible, South Carolina. It was up front, honest, and direct, but they weren't even married yet; there was a summer and the need for him to finish his rotations. Leaving was incomprehensible. Christmas has now come and gone and he only has five months left of rotations. They will be leaving and I want to scream STOP!

Sometimes, one realizes one has no control. We cry uncle, we say okay. Thy will be done.  After the kicking and yelling,  one adjusts, refocuses, and builds the lemonade stand, sets up the cups, stirs in the sugar.

 I've started planning. Planning my trips south, making my first grandma stop in Chicago (to the other daughter who left her mama), and then on to South Carolina. In my recognition, in my imagined loss,  I pause to be grateful--grateful I had twenty five years to believe this child was all mine.