This is, as I’ve said before (ad nauseum, you might say), a time of year tinged with sadness for me. The endings and goodbyes come one after another, waves lapping onto the shore of my life, eroding anything I have written in the sand. An extra farewell this year is the fact that Matt’s parents have sold their house in Vermont, the house that Matt grew up in, the house where the family has gathered for years, the house that is one of Grace and Whit’s very favorite places to visit. The picture above was taken on their very last morning there, looking out over the field that unfurls gorgeously, its colors undulating with the seasons, in front of the house.
On Sunday night Whit was beside himself, unable to go to sleep because he was crying so hard. He sat on my lap and wept, face wet with tears, wailing over and over again that he didn’t want Grandma and Grandpa to sell the house in Vermont. It reminded me of the night a year ago when he dissolved into genuine, heartbroken sobs about the fact that he was no longer a baby. His humor and little boy bluster sometimes camouflage his intensely sensitive core. He was not comforted by my reassurances that there were many more fun visits ahead, just in different places. He just sobbed and sobbed, burrowing into my neck like he did when he was much littler, and cried his heart out. I know the feeling.
Today I picked the kids up from school because it is the last day of regular pick up. Grace ran up to me, a friend in tow, frantically asking for a playdate with this girl and one more. The girl standing next to her is moving out of state at the end of this week, and this was literally the last chance. I said, as gently as I could, that we could not do it, because Grace had a doctor’s appointment. Long minutes of negotiation ensued, complete with arms crossing, feet stamping, and voices being raised. When we walked to the car, Grace was in angry tears and Whit was uncharacteristically quiet, not quite sure what was going on. In the car I told her that this was the last pick up of the year, that I was disappointed that she was acting this way. She crumpled even further, cried harder. Almost immediately I apologized, and told her that was unfair of me to have said; there have been hundreds of wonderful pick ups, I said, and there will be more. One day is not a big deal, and I ought not freight it too much with being the last. She said she felt worse, even worse, about having marred the last pick up of second grade. She wept. I know the feeling.
We got home and curled up on her bed to talk it out, and she turned her bad mood around surprisingly quickly. But her rapid disintegration at school, the urgency of the request, and the emotion in the outburst all speak to how sensitive she is, too, to this season of endings. While transitions are hard for everyone, I suppose it’s shameful that it’s taken me this long to realize that my children may struggle especially with them, as I do. When Grace and Whit evince these qualities, straight from the heart of who I am, I am overcome with both compassion and guilt. I relate intensely to how they feel, but I also feel enormously responsible for the fact that they have these feelings at all. I wish I could lift this from their shoulders, this inchoate anxiety about change whose darkness can cloud even the most radiant days. But I can’t. I think all I can do is try to remain gentle with them about the complicated, non-rational emotions that swirl in times like these. To allow their sadness room to breathe while also reminding them of all that is bright. After all, I know the feeling.
yes, knowing the feeling. plus, feeling the intensity as the mirror reflects back. and trying to feel compassion for all through the process. breathing now…
Just lovely. And this line: “I wish I could lift this from their shoulders, this inchoate anxiety about change whose darkness can cloud even the most radiant days.”–I love it. Just gorgeous. xxoo
I feel for all three of you. Our dark days are always in the winter. For some reason, we all feel freed and clear when late spring and summer roll around. (I’ve often thought that June is the *only* good month of the whole year. This just shows how blind I can be, and how foolishly I often live my blessed life.)
You and I have said this before, but I also think that our children pick up on our moods. I wish this weren’t the case. They are our tiny mirrors.
But I think both of your beautiful children experience loss in an exquisite and powerful way. How sad would you be if these vital moments passed and they didn’t notice?
We remember only what we truly feel, and they will never forget the hills of Vermont, the sensations of second grade, and the feeling of being so loved by their wonderful mother.
“To allow their sadness room to breathe while also reminding them of all that is bright.” That’s the trick, isn’t it? Such a delicate balance.
I also grieved when my grandparents sold the house I loved visiting – and I was twelve, almost “too old” to cry over it. (Or so some would say.) I still miss that blue farmhouse set among the Ohio woods, but I’ll never forget it. And your kids will never forget those times in Vermont.
This grabbed my heart – as your words so often do. I love the vulnerability, the beauty of the way you share. What a gift you are to those of us who NEED to see and hear the realness in others, in life!
I’m not sure I have a particular season that speaks of goodbyes to me – but I know the feeling and I so appreciate the way you: “…allow their sadness room to breathe while also reminding them of all that is bright. ” – I think it’s a gift to all of us, not just your kids!
Thank you, Lindsey! Wishing you and your family some smooth & sweet times in the grandparent’s house transition.
Beautiful and heartbreaking.
Your children are beautiful human beings. Inside and out.
I think *I’m* sad that the grandparents sold the house in Vermont, and I don’t even know them. I just love Vermont, and I love a grandparents’ house in Vermont. I’m with Whit.
I am feeling melancholy about the changing of the “year,” as I still feel it changes with the school years and not with New Year’s Eve, and it makes me think of you often. Summer is such limbo. Sometimes it is sweet, but often it just feels uncomfortable and unfamiliar.
xoxo
I want to cry too as my grandparent’s house is being sold. It’s the right choice, but oh so painful.
There is a flip side to what you describe. Perhaps you bring a sensitivity to these powerful emotions, but you also give your children the space and words to express what they feel. I am often at a loss in the depths of my own emotions, turning them in my hand like a worry stone, but unsure about what exactly I feel.
I remember when my grandparents sold their house in Rye and then their farm in Vermont. It was very sad for all of us and, unfortunately, just not the same after that. Of course there were family gatherings but those places were magical. I’m sure it was my youthful lenses but there was always a sense of home in those places.