We zig-zagged through the city. Down I-70, circumventing downtown, and we slipped into our old neighborhood. We drove through the blocks that defined us early on and my eyes darted this way and that, taking in the little memories that each road offered up.
How many times did we drive out of the city on Friday afternoon, childless, only to return on Friday night with a back seat full of exuberant Abby? Our ears ringing, our little apartment exploding with Polly's and ponies and Barbies. How many weekends were spent criss-crossing the state for a drop-off or a pick-up. How many miles we covered, hashing out the details of family court, of our future, confirming and assuring that we were making the right choice. The only choice. And how many of those long Missouri miles did we drive in silence, holding hands and wishing.
We neared the road to Abby's school; how nervous she was that first day of fourth grade...how nervous we all were as we jumped feet-first into uniforms and after-school care and PTA. And all those times that she forgot her backpack in our apartment. And the time I made her go the entire day without it because I wasn't about to turn around down our one-way street
again for her to retrieve it. Her anger was tangible, but the lesson was learned. And that school sat quietly across a parking lot from the church where we promised to be with each other forever. Forever is a long time, but that day they were promises easily given. Promises we'd give again, although maybe now they wouldn't be as easy, knowing what we do.
Every other Friday evening we'd drop Abby off for Girl Scouts at the Baptist Church a neighborhood away and hope that in the span of two hours she'd come away an empowered girl, while we slipped into a neighborhood watering hole to wait.
If I close my eyes, I can walk down the hall of our apartment. The huge bedroom that we foolishly thought we could squeeze a baby and all his accouterments into. Our tiny bathroom, half the size of the outdoor patio that drew us in the first place, with the square
smaller-than-a-tub-but-larger-than-a-shower stall. Our tiny kitchen and the carpeted dining room and Megan coming over a couple of times a week to eat with us, because for a brief and glorious time, we were neighbors. And Abby starting our tradition of beginning a meal with each of us saying one thing we're thankful for. We still do that. And the time we took our dining table apart so that we could put it on our patio and eat al fresco on a humid Missouri evening, with the sounds of Plaza traffic and cicadas serenading us as we ate and our containers full of flowers and herbs and plants nearly blocking anyone on the street from seeing us.
I remember where I was laying on the floor in the front room when Uriah came home with family court news, and then throwing the paperwork across the living room and wishing there was more space because that small apartment was not big enough to hold my anger. I remember sitting on our couch on a spring afternoon, after spending the day washing away the winter from our windows; I gave Uriah two dates for a wedding - or the option to back out. We started planning in the warm sunshine how to make official what we'd known for years: we were meant to be together. And I remember standing in front of Abby's closet as he proposed to me for real, with a ring that didn't come from a candy machine. And I demanded he get down on one knee and do it proper. And I was so happy.
As we drove through Kansas City proper, with every road we turned down and each glimpse of the sky line, a memory shot up and I found myself nostalgic and a little sad. We won't ever have that life again - city life with one kid who only came every other weekend. The carefree ability to have cheese and crackers and wine for dinner and then walk down to the Plaza and take our time browsing though Pottery Barn and Barnes & Noble without having to maneuver a stroller or find the nearest bathroom; those days are long gone. But I like where our life is now. I like walking, instead, to the library and stopping at the park to take our time climbing the ladders and sliding and swinging. I like that our skyline is the shore of Lake Superior.
There will always be a piece of my heart that belongs to Kansas City. It's where our story started; where we got married and had a baby and planted the seeds that would become our life, even if that life has been uprooted and replanted a time or two. So much of our early life is squished into the corners and streets and buildings, but it is a memory town now.
I will be grateful for all the roads that twisted and turned to get us to
this spot.
We zig-zagged through the city. Down I-70, circumventing downtown, and we slipped into our old neighborhood. We drove through the blocks that defined us early on and my eyes darted this way and that, taking in the little memories that each road offered up.
How many times did we drive out of the city on Friday afternoon, childless, only to return on Friday night with a back seat full of exuberant Abby? Our ears ringing, our little apartment exploding with Polly's and ponies and Barbies. How many weekends were spent criss-crossing the state for a drop-off or a pick-up. How many miles we covered, hashing out the details of family court, of our future, confirming and assuring that we were making the right choice. The only choice. And how many of those long Missouri miles did we drive in silence, holding hands and wishing.
We neared the road to Abby's school; how nervous she was that first day of fourth grade...how nervous we all were as we jumped feet-first into uniforms and after-school care and PTA. And all those times that she forgot her backpack in our apartment. And the time I made her go the entire day without it because I wasn't about to turn around down our one-way street
again for her to retrieve it. Her anger was tangible, but the lesson was learned. And that school sat quietly across a parking lot from the church where we promised to be with each other forever. Forever is a long time, but that day they were promises easily given. Promises we'd give again, although maybe now they wouldn't be as easy, knowing what we do.
Every other Friday evening we'd drop Abby off for Girl Scouts at the Baptist Church a neighborhood away and hope that in the span of two hours she'd come away an empowered girl, while we slipped into a neighborhood watering hole to wait.
If I close my eyes, I can walk down the hall of our apartment. The huge bedroom that we foolishly thought we could squeeze a baby and all his accouterments into. Our tiny bathroom, half the size of the outdoor patio that drew us in the first place, with the square
smaller-than-a-tub-but-larger-than-a-shower stall. Our tiny kitchen and the carpeted dining room and Megan coming over a couple of times a week to eat with us, because for a brief and glorious time, we were neighbors. And Abby starting our tradition of beginning a meal with each of us saying one thing we're thankful for. We still do that. And the time we took our dining table apart so that we could put it on our patio and eat al fresco on a humid Missouri evening, with the sounds of Plaza traffic and cicadas serenading us as we ate and our containers full of flowers and herbs and plants nearly blocking anyone on the street from seeing us.
I remember where I was laying on the floor in the front room when Uriah came home with family court news, and then throwing the paperwork across the living room and wishing there was more space because that small apartment was not big enough to hold my anger. I remember sitting on our couch on a spring afternoon, after spending the day washing away the winter from our windows; I gave Uriah two dates for a wedding - or the option to back out. We started planning in the warm sunshine how to make official what we'd known for years: we were meant to be together. And I remember standing in front of Abby's closet as he proposed to me for real, with a ring that didn't come from a candy machine. And I demanded he get down on one knee and do it proper. And I was so happy.
As we drove through Kansas City proper, with every road we turned down and each glimpse of the sky line, a memory shot up and I found myself nostalgic and a little sad. We won't ever have that life again - city life with one kid who only came every other weekend. The carefree ability to have cheese and crackers and wine for dinner and then walk down to the Plaza and take our time browsing though Pottery Barn and Barnes & Noble without having to maneuver a stroller or find the nearest bathroom; those days are long gone. But I like where our life is now. I like walking, instead, to the library and stopping at the park to take our time climbing the ladders and sliding and swinging. I like that our skyline is the shore of Lake Superior.
There will always be a piece of my heart that belongs to Kansas City. It's where our story started; where we got married and had a baby and planted the seeds that would become our life, even if that life has been uprooted and replanted a time or two. So much of our early life is squished into the corners and streets and buildings, but it is a memory town now.
I will be grateful for all the roads that twisted and turned to get us to
this spot.
