I flew from Toronto to Newark this afternoon. It was very bumpy and took a long time to descend. I had melted my herbal motion sickness pills under my tongue and usually that means I'm good to go... not today.
I was sitting next to a very nice young man. He had kind eyes. His name was Lucien. He was a lawyer who advised companies about what the laws were with regard to mergers, etc. He seemed to really like his work. He was close to his family. He also happened to be... single.
I wonder if he and my daughter... but then, I shot it down, because, even if Lucien was game, which he probably wouldn't be, my daughter would never, ever, agree to go on a blind date that I set up. Never.
At least, I don't think she would.
Anyway, lucky for me, my daughter and Lucien too, nobody had to be embarrassed, because, right in the middle of my daydream about this nice Canadian boy and Emily falling in love, her moving back to Canada and getting married and having cute little dark haired babies with impossibly long eyelashes, the plane started bumping.
Just a few bobs and weaves to start and then more and more, and my herbal pills decided that they were for less vigorous occasions and this was not what they signed up for.
I spent the final 35 excruciating minutes of the flight, deep breathing, fanning my sweaty face with my customs card and praying I wouldn't have to hurl the contents of my stomach into one of those handy-dandy airline bags tucked in the pouch in front of me.
"Are you okay?" the never-to-be-son-in-law asked.
"Mmm..." I mumbled.
Finally we landed. I staggered to my feet and lurched off the plane, took a taxi to the hotel and recuperated. My daughter called. We arranged to meet at a restaurant in the East Village.
I was early, so I stood by a tree filled with little white fairy lights and waited for my daughter and her friend. I tried to casually scan sidewalk, my eyes, my heart hungry for the sight of her, five long months since I had seen her last.
Yet, I had to be careful, didn't want to seem too anxious. Don't want her to feel the pressure, the weight of my enormous, and sometimes suffocating love. Because seriously, whenever I see her, I want to scoop her up, hug her in my arms, cover her face with a million kisses, rub my cheek against her hair and breathe her in, like I used to when she was little.
I whirled around and there she was, standing in front of me. My daughter.
"Hi Honey," I said, acting casual, giving her a quick hug, nothing too confining that she would need to escape from.
She introduced me to her friend and we entered the restaurant.
We made polite chit-chat about the flight, I didn't mention the nice young man. We touched on the weather, what we were going to eat, the play I'm going to be doing, her brothers. And all the while I was storing away memories to shore me up for the next huge stretch of time away, her living in Brooklyn and me in Canada.
We talked about her blog, TIWWCBF, that she's co-writing with a woman named Sheera. There was a bit of drama this week. I have not slept well for the last two nights ago because I was mad about something someone wrote in the comments. It's that primal mother thing. Usually, I'm very balanced but when somebody is mean to my kids I want to punch their lights out.
"It's fine, Mom. We've talked it over. It's fine."
I knew my daughter well enough to know that it was time for me to change the subject. I mention the Huffington Post Canada blog.
"What are you going to write about?" she asked, taking a sip of her wine.
"I don't know. They said I could write about anything I want."
"Well, Mom, it's the Huffington Post. You can't just do your regular kind of blogging where you chat about going downstairs to get your slippers."
"Sure, I can."
"Mom, it's got to be something bigger, more universal than putting on your slippers and eating some ice cream with berries."
I started to laugh, because she's right. That's what my blogs are usually like. And suddenly I get the big idea. It hits me like a jolt of lighting. I slapped the table with my hands. "Honey, I've got it!" half rising from my seat, "A mother daughter blog! We can do a blog. You and me"
"Mom, I've got a blog. I'm doing a blog with Sheera"
"Dump her." I couldn't believe how ruthless I sounded.
"Mom, seriously, no."
I knew she meant it, but it was too late. I've latched onto this idea like a starving dog. There is a voice inside whispering, "This is your chance, Meg. Don't mess it up. If you handle this right, you could be having weekly interactions with your beloved daughter about life, literature, love and whatever else comes up." And I suddenly feel quite desperate to make this happen. Because if I can convince her to do a mother/daughter blog maybe it will make us close again. The way it used to be before things changed. And I don't know why, but typing that last sentence made my eyes fill up. And I probably shouldn't post this, but I'm going to.
Not only that, but I'm in New York for a week and I'm going to continue to work on her, hoping, praying that I can convince her to change her mind and say, yes.