Bye Bye Momma

I chose to be a working mom both for financial and professional reasons. But I never was good at dropping my children at daycare. I would always cry. Consequently, I made my husband do it. I rationalized that because I had to be at work earlier than he did, it made sense for him to take on the task. The real reason was that I didn't want to feel the guilt of separation.

My son had a tough time during separation even while still at home, so I'd cheerily say ‘bye bye’ and head out one door while the kids went out the other. Even though my daughter was always pretty happy to start her day in the care of someone else, the pangs of leaving them was nevertheless heart wrenching, so I avoided doing it.

Separation got easier once both children were in school. School was different. Everyone sent their kids to school. I was just like all the other moms, even those who had stayed at home during their children's earliest years. My guilt was assuaged.

Then came the move from Connecticut to Tennessee for my husband's job. Our daughter was about to be a senior in high school. My family had moved me from Indiana to Florida when I was a junior, and it had been horrible. Consequently, I wasn't about to do the same thing to our daughter. The notion of separating from her for the year was hard to imagine, but a good friend helped me work through it. He explained, first of all, that it wasn't for a year. It was for nine months. He went on to suggest that I would come up for Parents Weekend, just six weeks after the start of school. He said, "Then she'll be home for Thanksgiving--only six more weeks. Winter break is just three weeks after that at which point you'll enjoy three weeks together. Then, how about you plan to fly back up in February? Say, five weeks after the start of the second semester? She'll then be home for two weeks in March. Come up again at the end of April, and then graduation is just another five or six weeks later." I could see it. It was going to be easy.

We made the move, got settled in our new home, spent a couple weeks with family up in Wisconsin, hosted some visitors, and pretty soon, it was Labor Day weekend and time for our daughter to go back to school in Connecticut. I had yet to find a job, so I, of course, would take her to the airport. She had flown by herself several times in the past making her a pro at navigating through security. But as we got within a few miles of the airport she asked, "Mom, would you mind coming in with me?" I happily agreed and entered the lane to pull into short term parking.

We walked into the terminal where she expertly checked her own luggage and got her boarding pass. I strolled with her over to the security line and said, "Okay, Sweetheart, give us a call after you get settled at Jenny's. Have a good flight." I gave her a kiss, told her I loved her, and stood while she entered the queue.

Just as I was about to head back to the parking garage, she suddenly turned around and said, "Bye bye Momma." Without warning, my stomach clenched, my heart tightened, and instead of my sixteen-year-old, I saw a three-year-old with blonde ringlets waving her tiny little baby hand at me. I burst into tears. Not just a tear from each eye, but tears of the sobbing variety. I heaved in air to try and stop myself, but I couldn't stop myself, I was having an emotional breakdown right there in the airport. She rolled her eyes and said, "Oh Mom," before handing her identification to security.

I felt like people were pointing at me and wondering: what the heck is wrong with that poor woman? I made my way back to the car where I sat for a good five minutes bawling and wiping my nose on my sleeve.

As my friend had so accurately predicted, the school year went by quickly. I followed his advice to the letter, and didn't suffer another breakdown. But I also never took our daughter to the airport again. I made my husband do it.

Copyright DJ Anderson, 2018