My daughter is back. Once again,  I see her during daylight hours.  Briefly, of course.  She’s a teenager; just because she’s home doesn’t mean she’s going to be spending time with me.She hasn’t been far away.  She’s simply been at school.  In September, she auditioned for her first high school play, Romeo and Juliet.  She made it into the ensemble.  There were many, many rehearsals, which began immediately after school and lasted longer and longer, as opening night neared. We’ve been attending plays and musicals at the high school for years. Every production has been remarkable, and this was no different. I never fail to be amazed at the courage, talent and razor-sharp memories of these young actors.  It was a thrill to see our own daughter among the citizens of Verona who mingled in the square, gasped at the swordfights, danced at the Capulet ball, mourned the deaths of Mercutio, Tybalt, Romeo, and finally, sweet Juliet.  Perhaps, in years to come, as D pays her dues and builds up experience, she’ll earn an actual, named role.

 

The last weeks of the play and its preparation gave me a taste of what I may expect when D goes away to college.   It sounds callous and un-motherly, but I hadn’t really expected to miss my daughter.  After all, things have changed since she was in elementary school, when I’d meet her at the bus stop and she’d be truly happy, even excited, to see me.  In the afternoons, we’d work on some craft project, or take a bike ride, or play monkey-in-the-middle with Kiko and a tennis ball.  She’d talk freely about her day.  She’d do her homework at the kitchen table while I prepared dinner and was on hand to help if she ran into difficulties.  Back then, I usually knew the answers.  These days, I’ve learned to give her space and time to decompress.  I try not to come on too strong with expectant inquiries.  Don’t hover, I remind myself.  Don’t be too needy.  Remember that my attempts at humor are not appreciated as they once were.   Avert my eyes as her phone lights up every few seconds with an incoming text.  Refrain from commenting on the identity of the texter, should I happen to see.

With D gone for such long stretches, there would be less time for negotiating this tricky obstacle course, of showing adequate, but not excessive concern.  Less time to demonstrate that I’m neither prying nor inattentive.  Certainly, I thought, I’d be more efficient.  I would do more writing.  Maybe I’d finish the paintings of tree trunks and tangled vines that I began in the summer.  I’d be more thorough at cleaning the house.  Maybe even arrange to have lunch with a friend or two.

But I wasn’t particularly productive or focused.  I found my daughter’s absence more unsettling than I had anticipated.  Especially in the late, dark afternoons, it was odd to realize that she wasn’t hiding out in another room, watching How I Met Your Mother on her phone instead of buckling down to her homework.  I was uninspired.  No in-depth blog topic beckoned me.  I couldn’t muster much enthusiasm for painting.  I did catch up on laundry, but that’s about all.

Kiko was restless.  He quite obviously missed his sister.  Nearly every time I began to concentrate at my desk, I’d feel him pawing impatiently at my leg, nipping at my knee, or hear him preparing to chew on a stack of papers.  He’d bring in a rawhide and drop it at my feet.  When I’d toss it, he’d look at me questioningly.  Is this all there is?  Is it just you and me now, and this singularly unsatisfying rawhide? I’d search out his much-loved Foxy, squeak it, throw it, shake it.  Surely Foxy would bring him out of his doldrums.  Typically, though, it did not.  He’d stand there, unbudging, staring at me.

So we’d go somewhere.  We’d walk, or I’d think up an errand, one on which Kiko could accompany me.  From there, we’d walk in a less familiar area, one that would hold his attention fully with its many compelling smells.  It seemed that the colder, windier and generally more miserable the day, the more time we’d spend wandering.  But when we returned, Kiko could settle down for a while.  I’d find myself less at loose ends.  There was no doubt about it.  We both missed our girl.

Now we’re adjusting to home life together again.  Kiko was instantly reacclimated.  Now that he knows he can expect D home in the afternoons, he’s content to spend his days sleeping on the playroom sofa.  It’s been less of a snap for me.  I’d gotten out of practice, had forgotten some of the finer points of my balancing act as the mother of a teenager.  But I’m getting back into the swing.  Most of the time, and always when it’s cold and dark, I’m glad that my daughter is back under our roof.  I’m trying not to get too accustomed to her being here, because before long, another activity is bound to take her away again.  Maybe next time I’ll be better prepared for her absence.  But I doubt it.

After a performance of Romeo & Juliet, D got a warm hug from a friend.  Often, when I glance at this dear little girl, with her pale blonde hair and bangs, I think, for an instant, that I’m seeing my own daughter, a child again.