Back when I was in my college, I had a friend whose mother described his visits home thusly: “We love to see him come. And then, we love to see him go.” I was thinking about this the other day as I watched my daughter, Clementine, try to make some cream of wheat in my kitchen. As she held the box up at eye level to pour the tiny grains through the ragged hole she had torn in the top of the box (into a quarter-cup measure she was holding somewhere around her knees, mind you), I asked her if she’d like me to go get her a ladder so she could make an even bigger mess.
“I’ll clean it up,” she snapped in irritation, which was unfortunate, because the irritation caused her unsteady pour to become even unsteadier, and the stream of cream of wheat that had been hitting the counter shifted to the open drawer next to the counter. And then to the floor. I sighed and turned away, muttering “three more days, three more days,” under my breath as I went. And wondered why in the hell colleges think that a month long winter break is a good idea.
We were all so happy to see her come home. There was the joyful Love Actually-esque airport reunion, followed by the happy Welcome Home dinner, followed by the celebratory Martanne’s breakfast. And then the first week was over and the laundry started to appear. Everywhere. And the plates and coffee mugs began to make their slow migration to the guest room. And my guest room. My poor guest room will never be the same.
It was the same for her. After a week of seeing old friends and hanging out at the old spots she began to speak longingly of her new best friends at college, and the great coffee shop down the street from her dorm, and how warm it is there, all of the time, even when it’s cold. (I have to agree with her there—after this last three feet of snow Atlanta sounds damn nice.)
But most importantly, when she refers to “back home,” she is no longer referring to Flagstaff. Surprisingly, this doesn’t upset me at all. Probably because I felt the same way when I first left my “home” and moved to college. I loved my new friends, the weather (there was snow!), and the fact that such a thing as a coffee shop even existed (it was the 80s—most people still bought their morning coffee at the gas station.) And it didn’t take me long to start referring to all that as “home.” And also to start seriously annoying my parents on my first visit back to my old stomping grounds.
I know, I know: one day all too soon Clementine won’t be coming back for school breaks at all, and then she’ll start to skip Christmas Day, and that, eventually, the time will come when the only way we can really be assured of seeing her is to go to where she lives. And that when that day comes I will probably look back on these visits and kick myself for not living fully in the moment and enjoying them more.
Or at least I will, until I open up one of my kitchen drawers and look inside. Because I am pretty sure that even then there will still be some cream of wheat stuck in the corners.