We’d had ourselves another epic road trip; the snacks, the singing, the laughing, the requisite rest stops. We’d survived the rolling, wide open plains of Wyoming and the brushfire that was just crossing the highway as we drove through it. We’d watched the sun set three or four times over various western mountains as we sidled into Helena, MT for steak dinner perfection (cooked up by my sister) and an ice cold Manhattan (stirred, not shaken, by my brother-in-law).
We’d driven the verdant stretch of beauty that is western Montana, a sliver of Idaho, and eastern Washington (forested mountains, serpentine waterways, dips and curves and long descents), all hazy yellow and socked in with smoke from nearby forest fires, only stopping long enough to gas up and keep going.
We’d found our little carriage house Airbnb in south Seattle, wisps of spider webs sticking to our hair as we dragged our bags along a dirt path through a neglected garden laden with unharvested apples below their parent tree, melting back into the earth, red and brown and smelling sweet with just a touch of vinegar rot.
We’d made our requisite Seattle stops — Japanese curry for dinner on Thursday and Biscuit Bitch for breakfast Friday, before I drove Simone to meet her mom outside the SeaTac car rental pavilion so they could head to Target and be together before dorm move-in the next morning.
I’d spent that night carousing with friends in Seattle, sure to eat my fill of dollar oysters and drink every craft cocktail handed to me before Lyfting back to the cottage, wiping a spider or two off my shirt before shouldering the door open and setting an alarm for the next morning.
It was a lovely moving day — not too hot, but cloudless and gorgeous. Volunteers in golf carts scooped up the boxes from the rental car and drove them to the dorms, where other students helped carry them into the building. I was doing okay, caught up in the business of getting the girl settled. I’d break down boxes and carry them to the recycling area while Simone’s mom organized clothing and unpacked sundries.
The three of us found a pizza place for lunch, and while Simone ran to the bathroom to wash her hands, Simone’s mom shared photos from morning check-in — our happy daughter engaging with the different student groups. It was the first time all day when I could feel tears welling up, my heavy heart, my deep love for the girl making the room go all fuzzy and sideways. I tamped it all back down just in time for Simone’s return, kind of moving my pizza around the plate but not able to eat much of it.
By late afternoon, after a funny and lively convocation in the stadium and a college-wide picnic dinner that I didn’t touch, Simone walked her mother back to her car (she’d return in the morning with Starbucks and breakfast for Simone and her roommate) while I sat on a stone stairwell, watching as other kids and parents navigated their remaining time together, the sun shining warm rays of light between campus buildings, bugs lazily buzzing around the lawn.
We walked to the outdoor havdalah ceremony sponsored by the Jewish Life department, the short set of prayers and ritual that ends the sabbath on Saturday evening. The word “havdalah” means “separation” — separating the day of rest from the rest of the week, but the special meaning of the word in that moment was not lost on either of us.
Simone let go of my hand as the braided candle flame was dipped in wine to end the ceremony, turning to chat with one of the other girls in the circle we’d made.
And then she walked me to my rental car, hugged me hard twice, said, “I’ll miss you, Dad,” and headed to the dorms, turning to wave just once.
- - -
I’ve been home a month now, and I’m still adjusting to the new cadences of my solo life — without the built-in parenting schedule to keep me organized, I often find myself disoriented. What day is it? When do I go grocery shopping if I’m not picking up Simone at the bus stop and stopping for dinner supplies, lunchbox items, and fresh fruit on the way? If I’m not parenting on Wednesday and Thursday nights, what should I be doing instead? Right now, it’s either drinking with friends or eating dinner on the couch and watching TV for hours. And don’t even get me started with laundry, the dishwasher, and cooking for one.
I’ve had a steady stream of events, concerts, and boys’ nights to keep me occupied since I’ve been back, which has been a welcome way to enjoy my new-found freedom. For the last 15 years, I’ve operated from a perception of scarcity — my off-duty nights were limited to Mondays, Tuesdays, and alternate weekends; my parenting time was also limited, and sacred to me.
So everything else — time with friends, dates, dinners, whatever — always had to be squeezed into just a few nights each week.
A couple Wednesdays ago, I got home from the gym in the late afternoon, showered and… had no idea what to do next. If Simone had been with me, I would have put on pjs, cooked dinner, and hung out with her. But it was a bonus off-duty night, so I knew I should make the most of it. And at that moment, I realized every night is now an off-duty night. I wouldn’t be squandering a no-kid evening by cooking up salmon and broccoli (Simone’s fave at-home dinner) and watching season two of Westworld for a few hours on the couch alone. It wasn’t a bonus non-parenting night, it was just… Wednesday.
Weekends are a little easier, because I’m used to having those off, at least every other one. I know how to enjoy them already — a healthy (and sometimes not-so-healthy) mix of debauchery and solo time, cocktails, lazy mornings, pj Saturdays, Sunday fundays, and life management tasks if I get to them. But those are stacking up now, too. And I realize I need to get a bit strategic and intentional if I’m going to make better use of them than I have.
I need to find new, constructive, creative outlets for my free time — get back to writing books, or take up tap dancing, or learn another instrument. I’m letting myself roll along a bit in an undisciplined way for now, but it’s not sustainable.
That’s not to say filling my time is my only challenge. I miss my sweet girl deeply. And little things can make the tears well up. Sometimes, I’ll just find myself staring off into the distance, lost in thought, feeling a little sad, but not able to pinpoint why, stuck in the moment until it passes. Some mornings, I wake up blue and have to force myself to face the day and all that comes with it.
But it’s a big, exciting transition, and I thrive on change. I love venturing into the unknown, and this new time in my life has the potential to be my next big adventure. For now, I’m letting myself be sad, happy, lazy, and untethered and unsettled.
It’s that time of year, after all — the Jewish holidays of introspection and atonement, another upcoming birthday, the loss of summer. Even in normal times, this part of the year is rough on me. So it’s much more challenging facing it alone, with the additional heartache of transition. But my friends are there 100% for me, my family checks in, and I do have that big-ass TV and cozy couch when everything is just too much.
Mostly, I’m okay.
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