Bending

I remember that day with almost perfect clarity. I was 8 years old, sitting in the back of my parents brand new Ford Explorer with my 6 year old sister; highlights kids magazine in one hand and walkman in the other, playing Backstreet Boys newest CD, obviously. The four of us were crammed in, smushed with pillows, lap-desks, and what seemed like endless trinkets meant to distract us from the fact that we would be in this sardine-like state for three days.

The new car smell was quickly replaced with eau de golden-arches; road-trip games and laughter turned into whining about numb limbs and frequently asking “Are we there yet?” After a little over 72 hours, we finally had crossed the poppy-filled blue sign, with the words “Welcome to California” written in white script. Here we were, the land of milky plains and honey sunshine, where everyone is either a surfer or an actor and the temperature never strays too far from 70 degrees. Imagine my surprise when we pulled into our temporary apartment parking lot, conveniently located next to a movie theatre, the only place actors appeared.

Culture shock immediately set in; to say Ohio and California are different is, in my opinion, a vast understatement. Homesickness began to eat away at all of us; we left family, friends, and familiarity all behind and became overwhelmed by the weight of having to do life on our own, just the four of us. For the next 18 years, we had to learn how to lean into each other. To be each other’s safe place and support when the winds blew; and boy, did they blow. They blew so hard, in fact, that I swore to myself to never do this to my own family some day. To never rip my kids away from all they knew and loved.

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“Mom, he needs your driver’s license for your escort pass.” My mom shifted Bradley from her left hip to her right and rummaged through her purse for her California state I.D. “Now, will this let her go all the way back to the gate?”

“Yep, she can take you all the way back. Headed back home to Utah?” Southwest employee asks.

My heart skipped a beat, “Yeah, I guess we are.”

As I held my daughter close to my chest and my son close to my leg, we walked onto the runway. I couldn’t help but feel the pangs of guilt tugging at my heart, as if I was physically ripping my kids away from all they knew and loved as I led them off the runway and into their seats.

I secured Bradley into his buckle and plopped Briar on my lap, and all I could think about was pulling out of the driveway in my parent’s new Ford Explorer. But this time, instead of my Highlights magazine and Backstreet Boys CD to keep me company, it was my two babies secured into either arm. This time I wasn’t the passenger in the backseat, I was the co-pilot leading the way.

As I’m ending this post, I’m realizing, like so many other things in motherhood, that it has turned out completely different than I expected and originally intended. But, I think that’s also the point of the story, too. Expectations change. Plans, no matter how solidly they are laid out, sometimes need to bend. And it’s within that bending that we learn.

We took off into the air, hovered at 10,000 feet, and that’s when I bent. I understood why my mom cried for three weeks straight at night, when she thought we couldn’t hear her through our paper thin apartment walls. I felt empathy for my dad, who dove head first into his work from the moment he landed, trying to build security from so much uncertainty.

Chris met us at baggage claim, and all four of us melted into a hug, leaning into each other, holding one another up. Heartbreak was visible on our faces, but something else glimmered in our eyes--unity. For the first time in forever, the four of us were all we had, and we had to bend into each other. And in the bending, sometimes you find that what you gain is worth the struggle.