A Tree Grows in Sherwood

We’ve lived in this house almost 11 years. My boys were five and eight, so this is primarily where they grew up; this is the home they remember the most.  We moved a lot when I was a kid and somehow we always adapted and it never really bothered me. Once I was grown, I had a nostalgic longing to go back to the place where I grew up, but rather than “a place” there was a series of places, a fragmented history instead of a cohesive one. When we moved here, I planned to stay for the longterm. I wanted the kids to have an address to visit in the future, an address they could point to and say, “this is where I grew up.”

My children’s father and I were the original owners of this house. We chose the lot and the model in this development and watched it being built. The backyard came fenced and with grass, but otherwise was void of landscaping. It was February when we moved in so the backyard wasn’t a priority, but as the air warmed and the outside beckoned us, we wanted to plant and tend the blank slate that was our garden. That May, the local Rotary Club hosted the annual tree sale where all trees were offered for just $10. We headed down to the Albertson’s parking lot, kicking through the sawdust they laid down for the event, and shopped for trees. We selected a few, a couple of ornamental cherry trees because I wanted spring blossoms. And then the birch. A tiny, spindly, sapling. But I love birch trees, with their beautiful bark and dense green canopy, and I hoped this one would grow into one of those beauties. We planted the trees and the birch was placed in the far right corner of the yard.

Every year the tree, much like my kids, seemed to grow exponentially. Each spring as it sprouted new leaves and soared to new heights, its trunk grew stouter, and new extensions developed from the original, until the base of the tree was comprised of multiple trunks. The papery bark flaked in red and white layers, forming ruffles that adorn each sturdy base. In spring and summer, its dense leaves rustle in the breeze and birdsong emanates from the canopy. My little $10 birch sapling became a magnificent tree.

Yesterday we experienced a wind storm. The weather predictions were ominous, gusts would be strong, and trees, still heavily burdened with leaves, would be more susceptible to damage. As the gale blew through, I kept glancing outside. The branches of my birch flailed violently. As the winds calmed, it appeared that the tree had withstood its wild battering. But in the morning I peered out the window and saw a strange gap in my tree. One of the larger branches had snapped from the trunk. It was still attached but was lying across other branches, bending and compromising them, its end resting on the fence we share with our neighbors. Horrified I summoned my husband who felt the branch was too large and heavy for us to manage ourselves. We needed help.

The arborist was friendly, coming to my garden with 25 years of experience. Innocently I thought he would take a look and consider it an easy fix, as simple as removing the broken branch. As he stepped toward the birch he gasped and said, softly, “oh no.” He surveyed the damage and assured me he could save the tree. But it would take more than just removing the broken branch. The trunk the branch sprung from, one of six, would have to be completely removed because it was going to snap as well. The branches that were compromised by the fallen one would need tending. And then tree would need to be pruned to lighten it and protect it from more breakage. $650.

Tears welled up and I felt sick. $650 to fix a $10 tree. I realized at that moment how much that birch tree means to me. How it started so small yet had grown so magnificently with each year. How it had become a metaphor for my family and the hope I had of permanence and what I wanted home to be. The tree’s roots are our roots, too. Settled in the same space.

So the arborist returns tomorrow to tend to my broken tree. It will look different, much like our family looks different than it did 10 years ago. But it is firmly planted, its roots are deep. And this is its home, this is where it grew up.

Letting Go

My oldest child graduated from high school on June 7. “Pomp and Circumstance” played as he and the other 350 plus students marched across the football field. A moment, as a mother, you can only imagine as some faint, far distant event, until it is actually happening. Of course you want it, you expect it. And then, your life with that child replays in fast, grainy snapshots, as he prepares to leave home.

A brief glimpse as your baby is born, wrinkled and screaming, until he is placed in the crook of your welcoming arm and guided to your nurturing breast. The sleepless nights and endless diapers are a blur. The first wobbly steps, the garbled attempts at words. Reading stories, many repeatedly, singing off-key, often made-up lullabies. Filling sippy cups and worrying about whether snacks are healthy enough. Trips to the park, interacting with other children, potty training. Baby gym classes, playgroup meet-ups, wondering if it’s okay that he still climbs into your bed at night. Secretly wishing that the tiny, contented sigh he releases as he snuggles up against you in the wee hours, could be suspended in time.

Letting him go to preschool and wishing he missed you, even just a little, while he was there. Kindergarten, reading Bob books, tying his shoe. Imaginary play, dressing up in superhero capes and creating worlds with Legos. Action figure, not dolls, Mom! Enduring school music programs that always included recorder versions of Hot Cross Buns. Elementary school and a big yellow bus and still needing his mom but less than before. Broken bones and stitches, and then the worst pain, teasing on the playground.

Middle school angst--for you and for him. Worrying at how big these hallways are compared to grade school. Knowing he will be physically and emotionally changing in ways you can’t stop and the symptoms of which you can’t begin to soothe. Remembering the agony of being 13 and knowing he must experience it for himself. Trying to loosen the apron strings he is demanding that you loosen and struggling to see him as the growing young man he is becoming and not the tow-headed toddler begging for another story.

High school. Really?? How did these children grow beards and get deep voices and become taller than you? Dances and dates and heartache. Crazy colored hair, punk rock band practice at your house and various extra kids raiding your pantry. GPA’s, test scores, college applications, and all this time, growing up. Preparing to leave. Four years, you think to yourself. Four years is so long! Just treasure it. And you try to but it goes by so fast. And suddenly, “Pomp and Circumstance” is playing and you are in the stadium stands and your child is in a cap and gown and is on his way out.

And now that four years have somehow seemingly defied increments of 365 long days, you must cling to a three-month summer. You still have three months until he leaves for college. You comfort yourself with how long three months is. But you know you aren’t fooling anyone, even yourself. Because somehow 18 years have passed and you don’t know where they went or how they slipped passed you. Three months is just a moment.

I sit here with now less than a month until my oldest child leaves for college. He can’t wait. He can barely mark the time between now and then. Until, in his mind, his life starts. New. Fresh. As an adult. On his own.

I can’t help but be excited for him. But I can’t help also feeling a little sad. That anti-climactic sad that comes at the end of something great. I’ve done my job. He’s on his own now. And I’m so proud! I try to pull him close for a hug now, and he grudgingly obliges. It’s okay, it’s how it’s supposed to be. But as I help him gather what he needs for his dorm room, the room that will be his home starting September 21, I can’t help wishing we could go back to that, tiny, contented sigh as he snuggled up to me in the wee hours.