Two More Years

I re-discovered this piece that I wrote when I was 15. Amazingly enough, the two years have passed that I spoke about and I am still here! I just thought it was interesting...

“Two more years,” I always tell you. Only you and I know what I mean; two more years until I’m 17, two more years until I’m legally able to move from your house.

            You tell me it would be the worst day of your life, the day I move out, I tell you it would be my best day of mine. We never agree.

            That’s where it always starts; the disagreement, then it ends with those three dreaded words that we both expect, we both know are coming.

            You know it’s not you I want to leave; it’s the fights, the disagreements. Sometimes I just want to be independent without you telling me what to do, I know now though, I couldn’t handle it.

            “I love you,” you told me, like you always do, as I left for school yesterday. Only this time, it was different. This time, I was imagining leaving a place of my own; you wouldn’t be there to remind me you loved me. No one would be there.

            “How was your day at school?” You ask me as I walk through the door at the end of the day. I knew the answer, only I didn’t want to tell you. My day was good, I spent the whole day imagining my own house or apartment, how it would be furnished – it would be just like the way you designed your house now. Instead, I tell you that my day was okay, realizing that in two years, there would be no one home to ask me that. Each day, I would walk in the door of an empty place that looks just like yours. Each day, I would pick up the phone and put it back on the cradle, afraid to admit that I missed you, your house and our family.

            I made you a chocolate pudding cake today, for your birthday, even though it was last week… I wanted to celebrate again. I knew you wouldn’t mind. As I pulled out each ingredient, I imagined I was baking in my own place. I don’t think my cupboards would ever be as organized as yours are. I complained to you when I couldn’t find the baking soda and laughed when you found it. That wouldn’t have happened in my house because there would be no one else to misplace it, there would be no one there to find it either. When I baked in my own house, I’d be baking for only me. In other words, I wouldn’t bake.

            “Will you empty the dishwasher, Bailey?” You ask, before adding, “please have it empty before we start dinner.” I argue and ignore you. If this were my own house, I would do that when I wanted to. When I had my own house, I’d have to load it too. “You don’t see my complaining when I have to do your laundry, clean your dishes, vacuum the house, follow you around picking up what you leave behind.” You tell me, I don’t argue this time, I know you’re right; Moms always are.

            We had a campfire with the neighbours tonight. I couldn’t help but imagine it if I had my own house. I couldn’t imagine what the campfire would be like – I wouldn’t be there. I would be at my house, alone, only wishing I had someone to roast marshmallows with until the early hours of the morning.

            I went to bed that night smelling of fire thinking of all that you’d done for me in the past.

             When I was in bed for 2 weeks with Salmonella poisoning, you took every measure to make sure I was fed, comfortable and safe. You convinced and took me to the clinic, then to the doctor, then to the blood clinic. You tried everything you could to try to ease the pain, and when that didn’t work you called up the neighbours for some help. When my mood was irritable due to the pain I was in, you kept calm and understood that I wasn’t angry with you. You spoke with my teachers at school to explain why I wasn’t at school and helped me catch up on schoolwork. Overall, Mom, you took 2 weeks out of your life help me when you could have been doing something better. I don’t know many people who would do that for me. As I think about it now, if I lived away from you, I would have no one to care for me unconditionally like you do. At 17 years old, I’m not sure if I could handle that.

            “Will you make my lunch?” I asked you one night before I went to bed a little later than I’m used to. You didn’t argue about having another task to do, you didn’t complain, you just did it. That’s what family is for; helping each other. I don’t think you’ve ever forgotten that. I made the bus the next day, thanks to you.

            We fight, we argue, and we disagree – that’s life. We never forget to love, live and laugh together and I don’t think we ever will. That’s what Mom’s and daughters are for.

            “Two more years,” I may tell you, again in the midst of an argument. You hear; two more years until I can move out, but it’s too more years that I can enjoy my time living in your house. For that, I know I am very lucky.