Commentary: Stay with me and live in my village

In the first 24 hours after we got home from Ohio, my mother called on four separate occasions. Four.

Mother is usually a rational woman. But, first, she wanted to make sure we arrived safely. Second, she called to discuss further plans for our summer vacation. Third, she called to let me know Toddler Pete left his shoe under her desk. Finally, she called to tell me just one more thing that I should put in a speech I'm giving.

I'm not complaining. Anyone who calls you that much after they just spent four days with you must like you quite a lot. Those calls tell me she feels about me the same way that I feel about her - that we both wish we lived in the same village.

Not that Americans actually live in villages. But we have called it that ever since my daughter was a little girl. Kelsey used to say that when she grew up, she was going to live in my village. Maybe next door. Maybe across the street. But definitely In. My. Village.

"Like Aunt Mary," Kelsey said. "Not like you. You live too far away from your mother."

I know that. I live too far away from my father, too. Which pierces me with the passing of every mile marker on Interstate 70. It is when I am in their
house for more than a day or two that we each glimpse what our lives might have been like if I did not live hundreds of miles away. I'd be able to meet my grandma for coffee. I'd be able to deposit Pete for an hour or two while I skipped off to write. I could mooch off them for food and use up all their hot water.

And they would kind of like it. Because they think I'm cute. It's a genetic thing.

The problem is that I am crazy in love with this man who requires the presence of an ocean to make his living. Amphibious landings are rarely made on the Little Miami River. So I do not live in my parents' village.

My mother, who left her own mother to follow an Air Force pilot for 25 years, understands this. But, my father, the pilot, does not. He was furious with me when we got orders to Japan several years ago. He could hardly look me in the eye during our last visit before going overseas.

"What is his problem?" I asked my mother.

"He doesn't want you to go. You'll be so far away. He will miss the kids. They'll grow up so much while you are over there."

"But, we have to go," I said. "He knows that. Didn't he do exactly the same thing to his parents?"

I couldn't understand why my father was angry that we were simply following in his footsteps. I couldn't see why he was surprised. What did he ever do but teach us how to leave home? He set the pattern. And we followed it. Children leave home. Parents stay in the village.

My children already have this idea. Their plans are all about leaving. Which is good. Heaven knows, I want them to leave and take their wet towels with
them.

Having my children leave me is not my trouble. What troubles me is that there aren't any plans on how to get my kids back here after they grow up to be nice people. They've given me no definite commitment. Just that vague promise to grow up in my village - a promise I should have gotten in writing. Even if the kid couldn't write at the time.

I am afraid that with our many moves I, too, am inadvertently teaching my daughter and my sons how to leave me. And worse, how to stay gone.
I know that children and parents who live in the same village get to spend all their holidays together without a 10-hour drive between them. I know they exchange favors across the generations. I know they drive each other absolutely berserk. Maybe I'd like that.

So, when my children go to sleep tonight, I will creep into their rooms and whisper into the soft curves of their ears, "Stay with us. Stay with us always. Live in our village. Because we like you. And calling four times a day is bound to be mighty expensive for a little old lady like me."