My daughter Allie is leaving for college in a week. Her room is cluttered1 with shopping bags filled with blankets, towels, jeans, sweaters.
She won't talk about going.
I say, “I'm going to miss you,” and she gives me one of her looks and leaves the room. Another time I say, in a voice so friendly it surprises even me: “Do you think you'll take your posters2 and pictures with you, or will you get new ones at college?”
She answers, her voice filled with annoyance3, “How should I know?”
My daughter is off with friends most of the time. Yesterday was the last day she'd have until Christmas with her friend Katharine, whom she's known since kindergarten. Soon, it will be her last day with Sarah, Claire, Heather...and then it will be her last day with me.
My friend Karen told me, “The August before I left for college, I screamed at my mother the whole month. Be prepared.”
I stand in the kitchen, watching Allie make a glass of iced tea4. Her face, once so open and trusting5, is closed to me. I struggle to think of something to say to her, something meaningful and warm. I want her to know I'm excited about the college she has chosen, that I know the adventure of her life is just starting and that I am proud of her. But the look on her face is so mad that I think she might slug6 me if I open my mouth.
One night—after a long period of silence between us-I asked what I might have done or said to make her angry with me. She sighed and said, “Mom, you haven't done anything. It's fine.”It is fine—just distant7.
Somehow in the past we had always found some way to connect. When Allie was a toddler8, I would go to the day-care center9 after work. I'd find a quiet spot and she would nurse—our eyes locked together, reconnecting with each other.
In middle school, when other mothers were already lamenting10 the estrangement11 they felt with their adolescent12 daughters, I hit upon a solution: rescue raids13. I would show up occasionally at school, sign her out of class14 and take her somewhere—out to lunch, to the movies, once for a long walk on the beach. It may sound irresponsible15, but it kept us close when other mothers and daughters were floundering16. We talked about everything on those outings-outings we kept secret from family and friends.
When she started high school, I'd get up with her in the morning to make her a sandwich for lunch, and we'd silently drink a cup of tea together before the 6:40 bus came.
A couple of times during her senior year I went into her room at night, the light off, but before she went to sleep. I'd sit on the edge of her bed, and she'd tell me about problems: a teacher who lowered her grade because she was too shy to talk in class, a boy who teased17 her, a friend who had started smoking. Her voice, coming out of the darkness, was young and questioning.
A few days later I'd hear her on the phone, repeating some of the things I had said, things she had adopted for her own.
But now we are having two kinds of partings18. I want the romanticized19 version, where we go to lunch and lean across the table and say how much we will miss each other. I want smiles through tears, bittersweet20 moments of reminiscence21 and the chance to offer some last bits of wisdom.
But as she prepares to depart, Allie's feelings have gone underground. When I reach to touch her arm, she pulls away22. She turns down every invitation I extend. She lies on her bed, reading Emily Dickinson23 until I say I have always loved Emily Dickinson, and then she closes the book.
Some say the tighter your bond with your child, the greater her need to break away, to establish her own identity in the world. The more it will hurt, they say. A friend of mine who went through a difficult time with her daughter but now has become close to her again, tells me, “Your daughter will be back to you.”
“I don't know,” I say. I sometimes feel so angry that I want to go over and shake Allie. I want to say, “Talk to me—or you're grounded25!” I feel myself wanting to say that most horrible of all mother phrases: “Think of everything I've done for you.”
Late one night, as I'm getting ready for bed, she comes to the bathroom door and watches me brush my teeth. For a moment, I think I must be brushing my teeth in a way she doesn't approve of. But then she says, “I want to read you something.” It's a pamphlet26 from her college. “These are tips for parents.”
I watch her face as she reads the advice aloud: “‘Don't ask your child if she is homesick27,’ it says. ‘She might feel bad the first few weeks, but don't let it worry you. This is a natural time of transition. Write her letters and call her a lot. Send a package of goodies28...’”
Her voice breaks, and she comes over to me and buries her head in my shoulder. I stroke29 her hair, lightly, afraid she'll bolt30 if I say a word. We stand there together for long moments, swaying31. Reconnecting.
I know it will be hard again. It's likely there will be a fight about something. But I am grateful to be standing in here at midnight, both of us tired and sad, toothpaste smeared32 on my chin, holding tight to—while also letting go of—my daughter who is trying to say good-bye.
我女儿艾莉一星期后就要离家去上大学了。她的房间里乱糟糟地堆满了各种购物袋，购物袋里塞满了毛毯、毛巾、牛仔裤和运动衫。
她只字不提要走的事。
我说：“我会想你的。”她瞟了我一眼，便离开了房间。还有一次，我用一种友好到连自己都感到吃惊的口吻对她说：“你认为你是随身带上那些招贴画和照片，还是准备到大学后再买新的呢？”
她恼怒地答道：“我怎么知道？”
我女儿大多数时候都跟她的朋友一道出去。昨天她同她的朋友凯瑟琳在一起呆到了圣诞节前的最后一天。她上幼儿园的时候就认识凯瑟琳了。不久，她将同萨拉、克莱尔、希瑟等分别呆上最后一天，之后就轮到跟我呆最后一天了。
我的朋友卡伦对我说：“记得我上大学前，整个八月都对着我妈妈尖叫。你得有准备。”
我站在厨房里，看着艾莉兑制了一杯冰茶。她的脸曾经那么开朗，对人充满信任，可如今那种表情我已经见不到了。我苦苦地思索，想对她说点有意义的、温暖的话语。我想让她知道，我对她所挑选的那所大学感到兴奋；我懂得她那富于冒险的生活才刚刚开始；我为她感到骄傲。但是她脸上的表情极为愤怒，以致我觉得，只要我一开口，她就会揍我一顿。
一天晚上，我们沉默了很长一段时间之后，我问她，我是否做错了什么或是说错了什么，让她对我如此厌烦。她叹了口气说：“妈妈，你没做错什么。一切都很好。”一切都很好——只是疏远了。
而过去我们总能找到交流的方式。艾莉蹒跚学步时，我时常在下班后到日托中心去接她到一个安静的地方，给她喂奶——我们四目交融，彼此心心相印。
艾莉上初中时，其他孩子的妈妈都在悲叹豆蔻年华的女儿同她们越来越疏远，我就想出了一条解决方法：救援袭击。我会偶尔出现在学校里，把她领出教室，带她去某个地方，比如到外面共进午餐，一起去看电影，还曾经到海滩上长时间地漫步。这听起来也许有些不负责任，却得以让我们母女俩的关系保持亲密，而别的妈妈同她们女儿的关系正在经历危机。在一起外出的时光里，我们无所不谈。出游是我们两个人的秘密，对家人和朋友我们从不提及。
她开始读高中时，每天早晨我都跟她一道起床，给她做好午餐吃的三明治；在6点40分那班校车到来之前，我们常一块儿静静地喝杯茶。
她读高中毕业班时，有几次，我在夜里走进她的房间，这时灯已经熄了，但她还没有入睡。我坐在她的床沿，她就给我讲她遇到的一些问题：有个老师给她打了低分，因为她在课堂上羞于发言；有个男生取笑她；有位朋友开始抽烟。她的声音从黑暗中传出来，不谙世故，又充满疑惑。
几天之后她总会给我打电话，我就对她重复一些我说过的话，而她已经身体力行了。
可是现在，我们正面临两种形式的分离。我想要浪漫版的：我们一道去吃午餐，斜倚在桌子上，说我们彼此会多么思念对方。我渴望在泪眼朦胧中微笑，又苦又甜地缅怀过去，最后还希望有机会说上几句至理名言。
但是在艾莉准备启程的时候，她的感情却藏而不露。我伸手去碰她的手臂，她就把手甩开。她拒绝我发出的每一道邀请。她躺在床上读埃米莉·迪金森的作品，我说我一直都喜欢埃米莉·迪金森，她便马上合上书本。
有人说，你对孩子约束得越紧，她就越要挣脱你，去证实自己在这个世界上的分量，这样就更叫人痛心。我的一位朋友曾经跟她的女儿经历过一段艰难的时光，如今母女俩又亲密如初了。她对我说：“你女儿会回到你身边的。”
“我不知道，”我说。有时我感到非常恼怒，真想走过去，把艾莉猛摇一气。我要对她说：“跟我讲话——否则我把你揍倒在地！”妈妈们的口头禅中有一句最为可怕：“想想我为你所做的一切吧。” 我觉得自己就想把它说出来。
有一天深夜，我正准备洗漱睡觉，她来到盥洗室门口，看我刷牙。有一会儿，我以为一定是我刷牙的方式叫她不能认同。但是她说：“我想读点东西给你听。”那是一本大学寄来的小册子。“这里有几点建议，是给父母的。”
我望着她的脸，她大声地读出那些建议：“‘不要问你的孩子是否想家，’册子里说，‘开始几个星期，她可能感觉不太妙，但你不必因此担忧。这是一个自然的过渡阶段。给她多写信，多打电话。给她寄一包好吃的东西……’”
她读不下去了，朝我走过来，把头埋在我的肩膀上。我抚摸着她的头发，轻轻地，生怕一开口说话，她就会逃掉。我们一块儿在那儿站了好长时间，摇摇晃晃地，重新寻找着母女俩心灵的接口。
我知道还会有艰难的时候。将来我们还有可能为某件事发生争吵。但是谢天谢地，半夜时分我竟还站在这儿，我们两人疲惫而难过，我的下巴上还涂着牙膏。女儿在尝试着跟我道别——我不想松开，又不得不松开。
1. clutter v. 使凌乱，塞满
2. poster n. 招贴画
3. annoyance n. 恼怒，烦恼
4. iced tea 冰茶
5. trusting adj. 轻信的，轻易信赖别人的
6. slug v. （用拳头）重击
7. distant adj. 疏远的，冷淡的
8. toddler n. 刚学步的孩子
9. day-care center 日托中心，日间托儿所
10. lament v. 悲叹，哀悼
11. estrangement n. 疏远，隔离
12. adolescent adj. 青春期的，青少年的
13. rescue raids 救援袭击
14. sign sb. out of class 把某人领出教室
15. irresponsible adj. 不负责任的
16. flounder v. 艰苦挣扎，不知所措
17. tease v. 取笑，戏弄
18. parting n. 分手，离别
19. romanticize v. 使浪漫化，使传奇化
20. bittersweet adj. 又苦又甜的，苦乐参半的
21. reminiscence n. 回忆，怀旧
22. pull away 拉开，扯掉
23. Emily Dickinson 艾米莉·迪金森（1830-1886）美国女诗人，美国现代诗先驱之一。1858年开始隐居，以隐居25年直至去世而闻名。
24. establish one's own identity 证实自己的身份
25. ground v. 把…放在地上，使倒在地上
26. pamphlet n. 小册子
27. homesick adj. 想家的，思乡的
28. goody (=goodie) n. （常用复数）好吃的东西，可口的食物
29. stroke v. （用手等）轻抚，轻轻地掠过
30. bolt v. 逃跑，惊慌而逃
31. sway v. 摇晃，摆动
32. smear v. 涂抹，涂上