“I guess so. What about this sweater? I mean, which shelf does it go on, yours or Chloe’s?” I asked.
“There are no ‘separate’ shelves now,” Samantha replied. So that’s how it’s gonna be.
But then the evening came and I realized that I wasn’t so fine with Chloe leaving after all. I realized this when I was on the floor, sobbing. Uncontrollably.
My husband walked in and found me there. “Oh no.
What happened?”
“She (sob) forgot (sob) her Pooh (sob) Bear (sob). Do you (sob) think we should (sob) bring it (sob) to her?”
My husband didn’t make fun of me. He also didn’t remind me how lucky we were that she chose a college that was only nine miles from our home. He didn’t try to stop me from feeling sad because he felt the same way. Perhaps worse.
It didn’t matter whether she was nine miles or nine hours away. She was still gone. Her walls, her desk, her closet shelves (the ones that used to be hers) were all empty. She didn’t need a place set at the dinner table, and there was no need to leave the porch light on. She would not be sneaking in at 2:00 a.m. or whatever ungodly hour she snuck in all summer long.
Because she’s gone. And it’s awful.
You Will Meet A Handsome Stranger
When my kids were young, they reached each milestone as I expected: walking was followed by talking, then pre-school fun, homework hassles, friendship drama, dress-code violations, dating dilemmas, and driving scrapes.
But having my firstborn child leave for college has rocked my world. I could no longer imagine what would come next, or what my life would be like. Would she still be a regular part of our lives? How would her sisters get along without her? And more importantly, how would I?
I couldn’t handle the uncertainty so I did what any rational middle-aged suburbanite woman would do. I went to a psychic!
Praying none of my levelheaded friends would see me, I sprinted from my car to the psychic’s front door. Once there, Corinne instantly took charge. She asked for a piece of jewelry to hold, so I gave her my ring. An awkward silence followed. Corinne appeared to be summoning her mystical powers, but I suspected she was just compiling her mental shopping list. Then, she finally spoke. Strangely, her accent was eerily similar to the one we use for Mario, our belovedly evil cat.
“I see you vill live long healthy life, perhaps 90 or 93-years-old. I see you good person. People come to you vor advice, because you are a geever.”
Wow. That’s amazing. I am a geever, Corinne. How did you know?
“In next few weeks, you have legal battle, but you vin.”
A legal battle? That’s unexpected. “You mean like a lawsuit, or a small thing like a parking ticket?”
“Um sure, parking ticket, vatever. Also, you have new career opportunity in February. Don’t do any vork until den.”
“I shouldn’t work?” “No. Take vacation.”
Oh Corinne, that’s wonderful news. I can’t wait to tell my husband. He’ll be thrilled. But what about my family and our future together, I silently wondered, in part to test her abilities.
“I see you have three kids.”
Wow, she’s good. Corinne must truly be clairvoyant. I’m sure the fact that there’s three birthstones in my ring had nothing to do with her guess. But I cast my suspicion aside because I needed answers.
“My eldest daughter recently left for college. I want to know what will happen now that she’s gone?”
“Ah, good question . . . I see nothing about your children.
That is good sign. All vill be vell.”
And that was that. She could see nothing more.
I paid my bill and left, (with my ring). Then, as I walked to my car, I was nearly hit by a bus. Holy crap! It scared the bejeezus out of me, and almost a few other things, but then I remembered that Corinne said I was good for the next 40 years or so. Suddenly I felt pretty invincible, and also incredibly relieved that I could stop worrying about that five-day-old hot dog I ate for lunch.
But I didn’t get the answers I came for. Corinne had let me down.
I wanted to know what the future would be like without Chloe at home. Strangely enough, a trip to a museum with my kids the next day provided a glimpse into the future that the psychic could not. Samantha had uncharacteristically suggested we visit L.A.’s Natural History Museum, a place I’d taken all three girls many times before.
Newly liberated from her older sister’s shadow, Samantha emerged as our excursion’s leader; a suddenly much chattier, energetic, headstrong, disturbingly Mussolini-like leader who commanded that Peyton and I cover every inch of that damn museum.
She made sure we saw every dinosaur bone, every precious stone and gem, every taxidermy-stuffed animal in every diorama, even the California History exhibit normally reserved for slack-jawed 4th graders. With each stop along the way, Samantha also insisted that her younger sister pose with her for a wacky selfie.
Then, without Chloe there to object, Samantha dragged us upstairs to the Hitchcock-like Hall of Birds exhibit. A 1960’s era room jam-packed full of cases and cases of birds of every size and species - scary stuffed birds that stare at you through their hollow, dead eyes. As I happened upon a little guy who looked sadly like the bird that hatched and died outside my window this summer, I realized I was suddenly down from three children to just one.
“Where’s your sister?” I asked Samantha. “Which one?”
“The one who came with us today. Honestly.”
Suddenly Peyton appeared from behind a giant buzzard. “Where were you?” I asked.
“I was looking for cell service. I want to send Chloe pictures of the stuffed lobsters I took on the 2nd floor.”
“But she’s terrified of lobsters.”
“I know,” Peyton said, before uttering a disturbing, malevolent laugh.
As I stood there, surrounded by those birds frozen in time, I realized that my family dynamic would constantly be changing. Samantha was clearly now emboldened by her new role, and she and Peyton would have a chance to forge a closer bond. Chloe might not share our home, but she would still be with us in our hearts and minds, and was only a tormenting text message away.
Corinne was right about the future. All vould be vell.
Sunday, one week later
Chloe may be gone, but she’s not dead, and I’ve resolved to stop being so damn dramatic.
We know she’s very much alive because we have received numerous reassuring text messages in the past week. Isn’t that sweet?
For example: “Can you bring me flip flops for shower.
And a coffee mug. Also car?”
See? So nice. It feels good knowing she’s been thinking about us too.
Last night, the rest of us went to my mom’s birthday dinner. She turned 87. One of my brothers and one of my sisters were there also, with their families. We really have a great time laughing and joking around together, but every so often we realize that my mom has completely tuned out. She can’t follow the conversation when we are all talking on top of each other (or maybe she doesn’t want to) so my sister and I take turns translating in a clear and loud voice.
Then when it was time to eat, my brother and I had to lift my mom off the couch and into her dining room chair. She’s too weak to stand up by herself now. But even though she can’t really join the conversation and gets worn out quickly, I know she likes having us visit. It makes her happy to watch her children and grandchildren spend time together.
Then, this morning, something unusual happened. I actually had the house to myself for a few hours. So I set up my computer on Chloe’s empty desk. I’ve never had a desk of my own in this house. I’ve always had to use the dining room table or sometimes my bed or even the floor.
It felt a little weird at first, using Chloe’s desk, and sitting in her bedroom surrounded by her empty walls and empty shelves. But knowing she’s happy makes it okay. Besides, she’ll probably come back home for a weekend in a month, she says.
But I won’t count down.
In two years I’ll start the college search all over again with Samantha and in nine months I’ll sit through another sentimental sixth grade slide show, this time for Peyton. But this time I’ll be one of those embarrassing parents, sniffling in the back, now knowing how quickly the rest of the time will go.
Later today, Samantha wants to practice driving, and Peyton wants to shop for decorations for her birthday party, but right now I have this desk. An actual desk that I can sit at, and for now at least, call my own.
And I’m not even going to question why someone thought it was okay to write their name with blue nail polish on top of this desk. Nope. I’m going to ignore that for now.
Instead, I’m going to sit here and enjoy this time.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
First, a big thank you to Tidal Press for making this book a reality.
I’m also grateful to my team of readers – Marla Zack, Alli Irete, Nicole Gauthier, and Sue Wright - for their valuable feedback.
Thank you to my friends and family who know that I write about them yet talk to me anyway, and of course thanks to my mother, for her gift of humor, but perhaps more importantly for her incredibly forgiving nature.
To my three daughters, who somehow excelled and became the amazing people they are today despite my obvious neglect, I offer my gratitude and unconditional love.
And thank you most especially to my husband, who is hands down the most supportive husband on the planet, for his encouragement, editing, and constant challenges to try harder and do better, despite my inclination to do the opposite.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kristen Hansen Brakeman’s comedic essays have appeared in the New York Times, Motherlode, The Huffington Post, The Washington Post, Working Mother Magazine, Scary Mommy, and Erma Bombeck Writer’s Workshop, among others.
She has appeared on Huff Post Live to endlessly debate the use of the word “Ma’am,” is a reviewer for the New York Journal of Books, and a guest blogger for the CS Monitor. Real humans have compared her writing style to both Erma Bombeck and Nora Ephron, but possibly they were intoxicated at the time.
Brakeman works behind-the-scenes on television variety shows and lives in the suburbs of Los Angeles with her husband, and three daughters. This is her first book.
She blogs at www.KristenBrakeman.com
Several essays were previously published as follows:
HUFFINGTON POST
Facebook Parent Group Gone Wrong
Chopper Part Three: In Which His Reign Of Terror Finally Ends Laundry and College in 7 Easy Steps
The New Bizarre Online Security Questions Don’t Hate Me Because I Can’t Hear You Babies . . . Eeh
Take Me Out of the Wretched Softball Game
My Husband Had Prostate Cancer And All I Got Was This Stupid T-shirt
Don’t Call Me Ma’am
Too Saggy for the SAG Awards
CS MONITOR
You Will Buy My Cookies
COWBIRD
Lunch With Two Joans
ORANGE COUNTY REGISTER
Mother Versus Nature Sharp Like Knives Hollister Hell
You Will Buy My Cookies
WORKING MOTHER MAGAZINE
I Chat, You Chat Don’t Dye Alone
HUMOR OUTCAST
Mother Versus Nature
SCARY MOMMY
Laundry and College in 7 Easy Steps Gluten Free Drop out
Parenting Tips The Experts Won’t Tell You
Is That The Shirt You're Wearing Page 22
