Helter Shelter
Daughter Jess is about to finish her third day of college. She’s settled into her dorm room, she’s found her classrooms and she’s learning her way around her new town.
But she’s homesick. After three days, college is tolerable, but it’s not home. For her whole life, Jess had a routine, and she stuck to it. She spent 18 years in one house, with no changes or substitutions in the parental lineup. All that time, she slept in the same room. She put in 13 years at one school, mostly with the same group of kids. For 12 years, she’s shooed the lone Jowers cat, and for five years she’s petted the same adorable—and preternaturally smart—basset hound.
When Brenda and I reluctantly drove away from Jess’ dorm last week, Jess’ last admonition was, “Don’t mess with my room. When I come home, I want everything right where I left it.”
Since then, she has opened her eyes every morning in an unfamiliar dorm room, exchanged greetings with a roommate that she’s known for a week, then headed off to buildings, teachers and classmates that are new to her. That’s a whole lot of new stuff for a girl who wants to come home and find the 6-inch-high stack of paper on her desk undisturbed. Right now, Jess’ comfort level is low. So, several times a day, she finds a nice quiet spot, and she calls home.
Since I work here at the Jowers house, Jess usually gets me on the phone. She sounds a little sad and lonesome, and that flips all my daddy switches. From the time Jess was born until she started eating cereal, I was the one who got up at night and fed her, in the very room she just vacated. Just so everybody knows: wife Brenda would’ve been glad to share the feeding duties, but if she doesn’t get eight hours of uninterrupted sleep, bad things happen.
When Jess calls, I can hear her voice getting sadder as she runs out of things to say. The spaces between her words get a little longer, and her voice gets a little softer. Sometimes, her voice starts to crack. That’s when I hand the phone to Brenda, because there’s a chance that I might get a little, uh, sentimental.
While Brenda’s on the phone, I go ahead and have my flashbacks. When Jess was a toddler, Brenda and I job-shared. Brenda worked three days a week on the baby-birthing floor of a local hospital; I did home inspections four days a week. On my three baby days each week, I’d be the lone daddy at the park, letting my baby climb to the top of the monkey bars and jump down, to the horror of the nearby mommies.
One day, I horrified a park mommy myself. The woman, engaged in rapt conversation with a female friend, didn’t notice that her son was trying to push all the little girls off the platform of the slide. When the little hellion tried to push baby Jess off, I bounded up to the slide platform and counseled him. “Son,” I said, giving my best just-escaped-from-the-psycho-ward smile, “if you touch the little girl in the pink parka again, I’m going to rip the ears off the side of your head and eat them.” The boy ran to his mommy, which is what I wanted him to do. “What did you say to him?” the mommy yelled to me.
“Told him if he hurt my kid, I’d eat both of his ears,” I said. “Should’ve been you doing the telling, but you were too busy talking.”
But enough of my flashbacks. Back to the near-present. Last night, when I finished up work in my office, I walked by the open door of Jess’ room, saw the night light painting the edges of the curtains and softball trophies, and had an instant sad spell. Baby’s grown up and gone. If she moves back into that room—and she probably won’t—she’ll be 22.
For the last couple weeks, I’ve been trying to follow the suggestions folks offer to a protective daddy: don’t hover, let the kid work out her own problems, find her own way, etc. That’s all well and good, but I just spent the last two weeks wiping the ball marks off Jess’ softball bats, oiling up her gloves and mitts, and forming them into the perfect shapes that will impress her teammates and coaches. When a daddy does these things for 14 years, it’s hard to quit cold turkey. As much as a girl just gone to college gets homesick, a daddy gets daughter sick.
Jess called me this morning, from a bench under a shade tree. She still sounds a little sad, but she’s making progress. Seems that today, she made a pleasingly funny comment in science class, drawing some praise and laughter from the science professor.
Tonight, around bedtime, the phone will ring, and Jess will tell Brenda and me about the events of her day. Then she’ll ask to speak to Rufus, our basset hound. Rufus knows Jess’ voice, and he barks vigorously when Jess is on the phone. When Jess is done with Rufus and Brenda, I’ll catch sign-off duty, and I’ll hear my daughter’s voice get a little sadder with every word.
It’s going to take me a while to get used to this.
|
---------------------------Advertisement---------------------------
|
|
---------------------------Advertisement---------------------------
|