Each morning, as I walk my dog, my head fills with lists -- what else, what else does she need to bring? I know that there are stores in Vermont, but still, the lists swirl: Tylenol, Advil, cold medicine, toothpaste, vitamins, Band-Aids, Tide to Go. "When will this end?" her dad asked on yet another trip to Costco, the weight of this new responsibility, this new chapter bearing on him. My breath catches in my throat. I shrug and turn. "Umm, well, not until I breathe my last," I think to myself.The lists swirl as I walk, and I travel to those early days, to those first times leaving home with a newborn, a toddler, a child, children. I remember.
I learned to pack the red Lands' End Do-it-All diaper bag with the attached changing pad: diapers, wipes, formula, bottles, extra pacifier, pacifier leash, blanket, outfit, extra socks (because they always wet their socks, said my mother-in-law), hat (in case it's cold, said my mom), burp cloths, onesies, a sweater, all for a trip to the grandparents, to a friend's, or to the grocery store.
I learned to pack for those early vacations to the beach: the diaper bag, beach blanket, umbrella, baby beach hut, swim diapers, bathing suits, shorts, tees, snacks, sunblock, towels, a sweatshirt (in case it's cold at night), baby Tylenol (in case of a fever), anti-gas drops (in gas of colic), teething rings, Pat the Bunny, Good Night Moon, stroller, play mat, baby bouncer seat, sand toys.
Later, I learned to pack lunches: peanut butter on whole grain bread, apple slices, Oreos; and to pack and unpack backpacks: lunch, assignment pad, books, worksheets, pencils. I learned to pack for scout camps: sleeping bags, bug spray, s'mores, propane stove. (Be Prepared!) I learned to pack multiple children for trips abroad: suitcases, phones, tickets, passports. And now, they do it themselves. They pack. They go. They return.
Yet, as the lists continue to swirl, I realize that my list making is my leave-taking. I won't be there to do the laundry (although I am not complaining about that) or to take care of her when she gets sick.However, like the diaper bag I learned to pack so many years ago, I can make sure that she has what she needs to do these things without me. My swirling lists allow me to let her go.
With each addition to the pile and subtraction from the list, I add my silent benedictions: be happy, make new friends, be safe, make good choices, work hard, stay healthy, and please, take good care of yourself for me.
I am pretty sure she will. She is a list-maker, too.
