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By Naomi Serviss
I was a mere child myself, about 11 years old, when the commercial ran on television, but this sentimental goo choked me up every time. I imagined my little girl (named Emily even then) growing up and away from me.
Having your first child take those tentative first steps into adulthood is akin to launching a space shuttle. By this time, good parents have done the basic prep work --- teaching morality, good hygiene, nutrition, manners, the importance of returning videos on time --- you know, the basics. Then you make a wish and set her free . . . blastoff. Pray the takeoff is flawless and reentry seamless. If you’ve done a good job, the shuttle will land safely and your child will return to base (if only to drop off laundry and watch Care Bear cartoons) Fortunately, Emily had a fantastic first year in the Park School. She worked on television shows, created films, and learned the fine art of negotiating living arrangements with her roommate. She’s already planning her junior year in Los Angeles. She pined for home only when she got sick. But my year without Emily was a little rougher. Her room seemed awfully tidy --- no baby T-shirts and clunky shoes carelessly scattered on the floor. Maggie, our dog, searched the house tracking Em’s scent. She finally resigned herself to her girl’s departure, settling on Em’s bed for the long haul. I missed Emily in small ways --- the way she let me play with her long brown hair, the way we harmonized Rent songs (she on-key, I off). I even missed our verbal jousts. Perhaps that’s why, when Emily came home for summer break this year, I wanted to spend time alone with her. Our mother-daughter dynamic is enigmatic --- sturdy and fragile, dramatic, passionate, disturbing, and rewarding. It’s a mystical, ineffable bond. I wanted to do something special to renew this relationship, forever fraught with contradiction and unconditional love. I decided to take her along on a trip I would never have made on my own --- a spa weekend at a fancy hotel in Palm Beach, Florida. This wouldn't be in my usual vacation plans, but as I’m a travel writer and had received the invitation, it seemed perfect for a mother-daughter respite. We were massaged, exfoliated, and wrapped in seaweed mud. We shared a lavish hotel room and had only one minor squabble (something about the TV, I think). We hobnobbed with the incredibly wealthy and pretended to fit in. We lolled in the Olympic-size pool and watched beautiful people flirt with each other. We gossiped like girlfriends. We agreed on a movie to see and afterward agreed that it was a stinker. It wasn’t a perfect weekend. I broke out in hives after my seaweed scrub. Emily wanted to go barefoot in the impeccably appointed lobby and scowled when I pooh-poohed the idea. We disagreed over room service: Emily wanted it; I couldn’t afford it. On the flight home we fell into a comfortable silence until there was some turbulence followed by the announcement, "Ladies and gentleman, please refasten your seatbelts." Em stiffened. I began brushing her hair with my fingers. After a minute or so her tension abated, her shoulders relaxed, and her cheeks returned to healthy pink from bright red. Suddenly my memory flooded with images of a cherubic baby delighted with her toes. A toddler both fascinated and repulsed by her infant brother. A young woman on the cusp, reciting prayers during her bat mitzvah. And now, this slightly terrified college student, looking out the airplane window, plotting her own path. Funny, but I could almost hear Mike Douglas crooning that mawkish tune. Naomi
Serviss, the mother of Emily Serviss ’04, is a freelance writer.
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A. Ozolins, Ithaca College Office of Publications, 27. Nov. 2001
Flash
forward 20-some years. Now I am that Hallmark mommy with two children,
Emily and Ben. Emily may not be marriage-bound as yet, but she has just
completed her freshman year at Ithaca College, and separation anxiety
was a big part of that year. My separation anxiety, not hers.