Rachel's Room

      I spent five days in the hospital last week with a serious digestive ailment, and it probably was a blessing in disguise.

      Yes, it was a painful, unpleasant and unsettling experience I don’t wish to repeat. But it helped take my mind off a dramatic change in the fabric of the Gunnels household that even now stabs at my heart and almost takes my breath away.

      My eldest child – sweet, darling Rachel – moved into her own apartment last week, and the house at the top of the hill in northwestern Grapevine will never be the same.

    

  It has been her home since we lifted her out of my Ford Mustang – soon to be replaced by a more practical Jeep Cherokee – straight from the hospital on a bright June day in 1992.  And there she grew into the smart, sassy, beautiful woman she is today.

      Over the years, her mother and I watched in adoration as she prepared meals on her plastic kitchen set, played with her Barbie dolls (she eventually obtained more than 20), dressed herself in costumes ranging from ballerina to Minnie Mouse and practiced the clarinet for her high school marching band.

      

     We were lucky to have her around as long as we did. She chose to live at home after college, using her teacher’s salary to buy a new car and accumulate a professional wardrobe.

      But I could tell she was getting restless as she watched her friends strike out on their own, establishing lives independent of their parents. She feared life was passing her by, and she yearned to fling herself into the maelstrom of the world.

       So when she announced a few months ago that she and a sorority sister, also a teacher, were going to look for an apartment, I heaved a heavy sigh and made a painful peace with her decision.

       Fortunately for us, she isn’t moving far, only a few miles away. We’ll still see her regularly, at least for a while, particularly on those nights when Mom is fixing one of her favorite meals for supper.

       There’s solace, of course, in the knowledge that Marice and I have fulfilled our responsibility. We’ve been imperfect, but mostly responsible parents. With Rachel’s help, we’ve raised a wonderful, loving and capable young woman who works every day at making the world a better place.

       That’s what teachers do, the good ones, that is. And by all accounts, my Rachel is a brilliant, hard-working young teacher. In her first year in the classroom, her students achieved lofty scores on the state’s standardized tests. Her supervisors were amazed and worked hard to craft a teaching assignment that would keep her in place for another year.

        One day soon, her mother and I will transform her old room from its present state of chaos into a sterile, neatly appointed guest room. We’ll keep, I’m sure, a few reminders of its former tenant. I don’t think I can bear to take down the photo montages of Rachel’s years in the Southlake Carroll Dragon Marching Band.

        But it always will be Rachel’s Room. When I pass by it on my way down the stairs, I’ll see in my mind’s eye the crib she slept in as a baby. I’ll see the bookcase filled with the dozens of “Spring Valley Kids” books I read to her before bedtime. I’ll see Rachel sitting in the middle of her bed singing to herself and playing with her dolls.

        I was 40 when Rachel was born. I thought at the time that I was too old, too settled, too selfish to be a good father. Her arrival changed my perspective completely, and I have loved every moment of being Rachel’s Dad.

       What hurts most, I suppose, is the knowledge that my role in her life, once so dominant, is fading, fading, fading as she soars from the nest to become her own person and builds her own life separate and apart.

        Time is a bandit, and I feel robbed.