TheBanyanTree: Bittersweet Longing

[pat.martin]

Bittersweet Longing



             As my husband, Andrew, slowed the RAV at the border crossing
into Washington State, he glanced at his watch.

            "It'll take us about 5 hours to get there.  We're meeting
Barbara at 6:00."

We were en route to Richland where Andrew planned to work for three days
before beginning summer holidays.  While he worked, I intended to acquaint
myself with the Tri-Cities-Richland, Kennewick and Pasco.  There was a
chance we would be moving there if Andrew's employer permanently assigned
him to the Bulk Vitrification System (BVS) project (converting atomic waste
from the Hanford nuclear site into glass).  He had already made several
work-related visits to the area but wasn't familiar with the Sundance Grill
where his American co-worker, Barbara, another electrical engineer, had
invited us to dinner.

Staring out the car window, I thought about our only child, Michelle, who
recently finished her first year of university and was unable to join us
because of her summer job.  I realized it would likely be many years before
the three of us enjoyed a summer holiday together again.  Childhood was far
too short, I decided.  My daughter had grown up and become independent too
quickly for my liking.  I missed her.

After an uneventful drive and a brief stop at the hotel to freshen up, we
arrived at the restaurant right on time-a sprawling cedar-sided building on
the bank of the Columbia River.  As we entered, Andrew said quietly, "There
she is."  He looked toward a tall woman in a soft blue denim dress and a
little girl standing next to the Please Wait to be Seated sign.  Past them,
I saw a spacious, tastefully decorated room with plate glass windows that
looked out on the boat harbor.

            As we approached, Andrew said, "Hi Barbara.  This is my wife,
Pat."

Barbara wore little makeup and her hair was styled simply.  Her
non-pretentious manner immediately put me at ease.  I reached out to shake
her hand.  "Hi."

Glowing with motherly pride, Barbara gazed down at her daughter.  "This is
Mary Grace."

Mary Grace had wispy blonde hair and a pale, pumpkin-round face.  As her
wide blue eyes met mine, she offered me a shy smile, then wrapped her arms
around her mother's legs.

"Hi Mary Grace," I said, bending down and smiling warmly.

"My husband, Gary, will join us in a few minutes," Barbara said.  "He's just
parking the car."

The waitress, neatly dressed in a black skirt and white blouse, guided us to
a table covered with a white linen tablecloth where three beverage glasses
and a large array of sparkling silverware decorated each formal place
setting.

"Oh, here's Gary now."

"Hi.  Where in Canada are y'all from?"  Gary asked, dropping easily into the
chair next to his wife.

The waitress handed each of us a leather-covered menu.  I watched Mary Grace
read its neat flowing script.

"How old are you, Mary Grace?"  I asked.

"Seven."

"Wow!  Seven and you can read the menu?  Good for you!"

Mary Grace, like Michelle, was a treasured only child with two doting
parents, and it showed.  Looking at her, I recalled Michelle's waist-length
blonde hair, plump cheeks and candid blue eyes when she was a
seven-year-old.  There were so many similarities between the two girls. Just
as Michelle had been, Mary Grace was comfortable around adults, and was
mature beyond her years.

As we socialized, my gaze was drawn to the mother and daughter across the
table from me-to their frequent touching and whispered conversations, to
every tender look they exchanged, to the strong bond of love they portrayed.
Watching them made me feel empty inside, and sad.  A physical ache settled
in the pit of my stomach.

"I'm jealous," I said aloud, surprising myself.  Then, to make light of my
churning emotions, I smiled wryly, raised my eyebrows and chirped,  "Jealous
because I don't have a little girl of my own anymore.  My daughter,
Michelle, is grown up now and hardly needs Mom."

Ironically, when I was of childbearing age, I didn't have the strong
maternal urges most women had.  Unlike my friends who oohed and aahed when
they saw an infant, babies held no attraction for me. And because I was
different from my peers, I felt flawed.  To be honest, I wasn't sure I
wanted children at all; I feared that I might not be a good mother because
of my turbulent childhood.  Only my husband's coaxing convinced me to have a
baby at age thirty.

Once I was a mother, though, I quickly settled into my new role.  I read
books on effective parenting, accompanied my daughter to lessons of every
sort: swimming, skating, horseback riding and jazz dance, and instilled her
with the belief that she could do whatever she put her mind to.  Ensuring
that Michelle grew up feeling loved with a healthy sense of self-esteem
became my top priority.  I gave her everything I needed when I was a
child-everything I hadn't received.  The result: a well-adjusted, happy and
confident nineteen-year-old excelling at university.  I had done a good job
and I was proud of myself.

Now, nearing fifty, at this unlikely time and place, I acknowledged an
unexpected, bittersweet longing for another child.  To my amazement, as I
watched the mother and daughter across from me the emotions I lacked in my
twenties and thirties surfaced- now that having another baby was no longer
an option.

Fighting back tears, I dropped my head and focused on eating my dinner.
When I calmed myself, I put on a brave face and looked up from my meal.  My
eyes met Barbara's.  A wise older woman told her, "They grow up so fast.  In
the blink of an eye, Mary Grace will be leaving home.  Enjoy her while you
can."



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Ms. Pat Martin
CANADA