A year ago, it had become official. People knew. And then it got really real – we were moving.
Leaving friends, familiarity, routines, everything I loved about my town and my home- none of that scared me. I knew I could do it, because I had done it before. It’s hard, and it’s sad, and it was awfully inconvenient timing (looking at you, spring of 2020!) … but I knew I could do it. The pieces of my life that I had grown to love, would adapt to the distance and become beautiful in new ways.
The pieces of MY life.
It was thinking about LIBBY’S life that kept me up at night, mind racing, thoughts spinning.
That part I hadn’t done before. The last time we’d moved, she’d been just 2. Her entire world was in the home. She was little. She was more adaptable. She didn’t stand out. At that age, when she lost it in the grocery store or at church for reasons only I could understand, above and beyond neurotypical toddlerhood… she still LOOKED like a toddler. It was relatable. It was “acceptable.” It was cute, almost.
But at 8 1/2? None of that is “cute.” The screaming and the meltdowns. The tics and constant moaning. The diapers. The complete self-centeredness. The distracted mama who won’t look you in the eye or carry much of a conversation when she’s at my side. Sometimes it’s understood, sometimes it’s not. Sometimes it’s met with compassion, sometimes it’s not. But no way do we come close to blending in anymore.
And school… oh, school. Her happy place. Her solace of routine and engagement and understanding and comfort. Her classmates had known her since 3-year-old preschool. They had moved past the staring and confusion, as had their parents. She was loved. She was accepted. She was known, all around town. Kids and parents I didn’t recognize would say hi to her in the grocery store. She was included, with birthday party invitations and thoughtful notes and gifts sent home in her backpack.
Leaving THAT and starting over again… it was more than I could bear to think about. Third grade now. Kids are sweet and lovely, but third grade is a lot different from preschool. And Libby is a lot different from your typical third-grade transfer student. And 2020/21 is a lot different from any other year for making new friends. There would be disruption and staring and not understanding and jokes made behind her back and there’s no getting around it. There would also be love and curiosity and acceptance and inclusion, but it would take time.
There is comfort in the fact that Libby is oblivious. She has no idea she’s different. She has no concept of what’s missing in her social life. She’s content and loves her school experience for what it is.
There’s sadness and longing in that, at the same time. Not for her… for me. She is living a very different childhood from the one I remember, the one I loved, the one I spent so many years dreaming of for her, the one I spent so many years dreaming of PARENTING for her. There is plenty of gratitude and celebration and joy in our circumstances as they are, please don’t misunderstand. That’s there and always will be. But we also have to have a safe space to share our hurts and longings, which will also always be there.
Inevitably the calendar turned to May, I shut the door of 118 S Eagle St one last time, and we did what we had to do – we started again. Even Libby.
It was hard. So much harder than I already knew it would be. (Still looking at you, fall of 2020 
) So when two little handmade cards of well wishes came home in the backpack around Christmas time, my heart just about burst. And when this little gem came home last Friday… 
She is seen. Again.
She is understood. Again.
She is accepted. Again.
She is loved. Again.
And it’s going to be OK. Again.
— — — — — — —
Melania: “Hi, Libby. How are you? You’re so beautiful today.”
Libby’s teacher: “Your friend Melania is here, Libby. Can you say hi?”
Libby: “Hahahaha. Hello.”
— — — — — — —
Thy Will Be Done 