The
truth? I love the idea of seeing the world. I
want to go to London and Paris and Australia and Northern Italy and Yellowstone
National Park. I’d just like to drive in
my own car and stay in my own house when I get there. My husband says there might be an RV in our future
and I’ll admit . . . I kinda dig that idea. London, Paris, Australia, and Northern Italy
are out, but Yellowstone, here we come!
The
thing about traveling is that it makes me hate myself. I want so badly to enjoy it. I want so desperately to overcome my OCD and
rid myself of my irrational concerns and set foot on an airplane and in a taxi
and in a hotel like a normal person, but I can’t . . . yet.
I
am working on it. I’ve gone back to my
past to sort through what has caused my intense need to control every aspect of
my surroundings, and it’s been a wildly intriguing process, as fascinating as
it is disturbing. But I have a long way
to go, and so when my mother-in-law offered to take Libby and me to Chicago for
a few days in honor of her upcoming eighth birthday, I took a deep breath, smiled,
thanked her for such incredible generosity, and told her my daughter would be
thrilled. Then . . . I worried about the
trip for weeks as we prepared to go.
I'm not completely distressed when I travel, but there is always an underlying
current of anxiety limiting my ability to fully embrace the experience. I find joy when I visit new
places and discover all that makes them unique, but the joy comes with a hint of grief
over what could be, if I was able to focus
on the fun and not the foreign, if I could ignore my insatiable longing to be
home. We stayed in my aunt-in-law’s beautiful new downtown condo in Chicago, so that helped. Libby is older now, so that helped too. She knows her mom is nuts and patiently uses the disinfectant wipes I doll out to her throughout the day without complaining. She did, at what might go down as the lowest point in our relationship, ask when we could get in a cab again because, “Mama, they smell so good.”
I was shocked, stunned, speechless . . . even slightly offended by such a preposterous declaration from a child who is supposed to have my blood running through her veins.
Our next cab ride cured my daughter's insanity within
seconds.
We
had a great trip. Everything went
smoothly and Libby relished in being on a girls’ excursion in which she was largely
in charge of choosing the adventures. We
hit Lincoln Park Zoo, Navy Pier, Shedd Aquarium, and of course, our main event
– we dined and shopped at the amazing American Girl Store on Michigan Avenue. Libby had popsicles before lunch and ordered
Sprite at dinner. She had her doll’s
ears pierced and went swimming in a rooftop pool overlooking the city. It was a whirlwind forty-eight hours, and I
believe we created some very special memories. I’m sure Libby will remember dipping her toes
into Lake Michigan, touching a stingray, riding the ferris wheel. What I will remember most, however, took
place after all the activities of day one had ended.
My
daughter and I were lying in the bed we shared on the seventy-first floor,
showered and clean and worn out, reading books before turning the lights out on
our first day of travel. My elbow ached from holding my book, so I stretched my
arm over the expanse of bed between us. Her little hand
instantly covered mine, warm and soft and unexpected. And in that moment, it didn’t matter that I
hated myself. It didn’t matter that
while she was flitting about the city fulfilling her role as the center of
attention, I was secretly counting down the hours until we returned home, to
the one and only place I feel comfortable and safe and right. It didn’t matter that I have OCD and I don’t
travel well and I might never go to Paris and London and Italy. In that moment . . . that precious,
unforgettable moment . . . nothing else mattered.
She
rubbed her fingers over mine, gently, reassuringly . . . as though she
understood everything she never will about me . . . as if she realized how hard
I worked to keep her unaware.
One day, she might look at me and past me and blame me and maybe even
hate me because of the way my issues have caused her own. One day, the space between us might be too wide
to cross with the silence of an outstretched arm. But on that day, in Chicago, my daughter
reached for my hand across the bed, and covered it with grace.
