On an October day in 1999 I woke up early, in labor with my second son. I labored quietly all day, and less quietly all night, until with an immense exhausting effort I brought him forth shortly before dawn.
The midwife turned him over and I saw his face for the first time. We had no boys' names chosen, but I knew immediately what his name was.
I am awash in tactile memories from those early days: of walking the hospital hallways in the wee hours before he was born, of the warmth of him tucked in my encircling arm as we rested afterward, of the weight of him tucked in a sling, of the vanished smell of his milky breath.
He moved out today.
This is a normal healthy thing for my normal healthy teenager to do, I know. We are all kinds of lucky to be able to send him off like this. But I am going to sit here and leak a few more slow tears into this keyboard, because his departure is leaving a hole in my world. He has become such a great kid: thoughtful, reliable, interesting. Plus he laughs at my jokes, even the obscure ones.
The night that we left Scotland, 18 years ago now, our oldest son was in a state. He didn't remember life in the US, and he was worried about what he would be leaving behind. "Will there be toast in America?" he asked urgently. "Will there be bread in America? Will there be butter?" "Yes, darling," I told him. "There will be toast in America."
It became a family joke, a gentle reminder for our children that our fears are often unreasonable, no matter how fiercely they may burn. "I can assure you," I told my 18yo yesterday, as he stewed about what else he might need to pack, "that there will be toast in Mathlyville."
Only two children will sleep under my roof tonight, the youngest of whom is halfway to adulthood. I have presided over a crowded house and a noisy dinner table for so long that I feel adrift when I think about empty bedrooms and quiet meals. I don't know what the future holds, but it looks like it will involve less laundry.
So I am reminding myself today, too: it is reasonable and fitting to feel uncertain about journeying into the unknown. But there will be toast in America. And even butter.
Toast. And LOTS of butter.
Hugs to you, my friend.
Posted by: mary d | August 21, 2018 at 02:56 PM
Lots of love to you. I'm in denial today that it's possible for my kids to ever get bigger than they are.
Posted by: Pippi | August 21, 2018 at 03:17 PM
My oldest moves out next Thursday.
High fives, followed by hugs, to you.
Posted by: bearing | August 21, 2018 at 04:27 PM
I've never been able to find an attribution for this, but supposedly there's a Scottish blessing that goes something like this:
"Praise for tea and buttered toast,
Father, Son, and Holy Ghost."
Praise indeed, for the toast and all it stands for. Wishing you tea and toast in abundance.
Posted by: Kristin | August 21, 2018 at 04:37 PM
Oof. It seems like the reminders of time's passing are everywhere these days! I have seven years until mine start leaving home. It sounds like a long time until I think of the quiet dinners. Thinking of you.
Posted by: Becca | August 21, 2018 at 08:22 PM
Hugs to you. I’m glad to know people who have ventured out on these paths unknown, because the thought of that road ahead of me is very frightening. He’s going to be well and all will be well.
Posted by: Jody | August 21, 2018 at 08:23 PM
Hugs! I realized my big girl was halfway through PreK-12 yesterday and couldn’t believe how the years had flown. I love the toast story!
Posted by: Calee | August 21, 2018 at 11:23 PM
Love to you!
Posted by: Gina | August 22, 2018 at 07:03 AM
Awww. Best wishes to all of you! ...My family also has a joke about toast: one year, when my younger brother was small, we celebrated New Year's Eve, getting noisemakers and sparkling grape juice and such. Well, midnight came, we clinked glasses, my mom probably kissed us all...but when, soon after, we went to go to bed, my brother started crying and protested, "But we didn't have toast!" Apparently, earlier in the evening, the way we'd talked about our glass-clinking plans had been a little misleading.
Posted by: Kellie | August 22, 2018 at 07:53 PM
Jamie, thank you for writing this post. It captures my feelings completely. My second moved out last month and we are now a couple alone. It's surprising how these milestones are so often tinged with a bit of grief for what was.
Hugs to you. The first week was the hardest.
Posted by: Marcie Miller | August 22, 2018 at 09:23 PM
Just adding to the hugs for you here.
Posted by: MrsDarwin | August 23, 2018 at 08:53 AM
Oh yes, more hugs!
Posted by: Zagorka | August 23, 2018 at 11:24 AM
Oh my dear!! First, I'm so delighted that while I was away (and gone from the computer, hence blogs) for almost a month, you wrote only two posts. How scary it must have been the eye thing! ;-(
And now your third son leaving. Many hugs. Such a beautiful post too! LOVELY LOVELY! I wish I could write like that. So inspiring. I cannot think of my sons leaving. Sigh... I don't want to start crying now. The last two nights I read an old journal from 2004 and marveled at the things I wrote about Kelvin and also newborn Linton. I couldn't resist commenting about some of it yesterday while the boys have breakfast even though I'm not allowed to talk to the boys in the morning (my husband's orders) lest I make them late.
Anyway... thanks for sharing!
Posted by: L - Mama(e) in Translation | August 23, 2018 at 10:32 PM
Oh boy. Eye trauma, or near-trauma, and children leaving home. Hugs you, dear Jamie.
Posted by: Melanie B | August 26, 2018 at 09:07 PM