Moving In

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1:02That's shopify.com slash nothing much. Welcome to bedtime stories for everyone. In which nothing much happens, you feel good, and then you fall asleep. I'm Catherine Nicolai. I write and read all the stories you hear on nothing much happens. Audio engineering is by Bob Wittershine. We give to a different charity each week. And this week we are giving to the true and faithful pet rescue mission, making a difference in the lives of resilient, loving, and devoted senior dogs, and giving them the forever homes

2:06they deserve. Learn more about them in our show notes. For ad free, bonus content, or to join the virtual village through our app, go to nothingmuchappens.com. I lead a weekly live creative writing group through the app called the writer's room. If you've been looking for a sign to start or return to writing, maybe this is it. When you climb into bed, your mind, relieved of its duties for the day, can wander off and keep you up or even wake you up. It needs a bit of direction, a sort of scaffolding to build sleep on top of. And that's how bedtime stories work. I'll tell our story twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through.

3:08All you have to do is listen. Some folks just need one story. Others need them to play all night long. Any way that it works for you is good. Our story tonight is called Moving In. And it's a story about a long drive in a packed car at the beginning of freshman year. It's also about paper cups of coffee, new towels and beloved memories, turning leaves on the commons and the tender adventure of growing up and letting go. I've tried enough skincare at this point to know that a lot of it makes very big promises. But what I like about one skin is that the science comes first. One skin was founded by four PhD longevity scientists.

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5:13After you purchase, they'll ask where you heard about them. Please support our show and tell them we sent you. It's time. Switch off your light. Get down anything you were looking at or working on. You have looked at a screen for the last time today. Snuggle down into your sheets and let every part of your body soften and relax. If you tend to clench your jaw, try resting the tip of your tongue where your upper teeth meet the gums on the inside. But first, take a deep breath in through your nose. Let it out your mouth.

6:15Nice one more. Breathe in. And out. Good. Moving in. The station wagon was packed. Had it had been unpacked and repacked twice already. We've been putting things together all summer. A box of books here. A desk lamp and shower caddy there. And it hadn't seemed like much stuff when it came in a piece at a time. But as we began to wedge things into the back of the wagon, all of it seemed to have multiplied while we weren't looking.

7:16This and comforter, pillows and a new book bag, laundry baskets full of clean, folded clothes, a bundle of hangers, shower slippers and toy litries and favorite snacks to see her through study sessions. We fussed over how to arrange it all, doing our best to leave no hoodie or extension cord behind. Though she was so much less worried about it all than we were. Which we supposed was exactly how it should be. She was looking ahead to a year of adventure, new friends, new experiences. We were holding on to the rhythms of the life we'd lived together, since we brought her

8:24home from the hospital in her car seat. It made making sure she had the shampoo she liked feel very important to us. Less so to her. By mid-morning, only about an hour after we'd hoped to be on the road, we were finally pulling out of the driveway. She was in the middle of the back seat, buckled in between a fluffy new comforter and an awkward stack of running shoes, a hamper full of bath towels, and a small trash can currently storing a surge protector, her hairbrush and four kinds of chargers.

9:25A neighbor who had babysat for her when she was little stopped by for a good luck hug and handed over a tray of coffee cups from the cafe and a bag of rolls and muffins from the bakery. So we each had a warm cup in hand as we made our way through the streets of our neighborhood. I was thinking about her riding her bike up and down these familiar blocks. Her and her Halloween costume running back to me on the sidewalk between each front porch to tell me what treat she'd gotten. Her running over the curb at the corner while she was learning to drive. I turned my face to the window and tried to take a deep breath, reminding myself that she

10:33would be home for Thanksgiving and never more than a few hours away. She reached her hand up from the back seat and squeezed my shoulder and I leaned one damp cheek against it. She was good like that. Even so young still, she could be with me, with us, with her friends, the kids she coached and tracked and just let us feel how we felt. Not try to jostle us out of it before we were ready. Just stay a moment with us. I padded her hand with mine, sat up a bit taller in the passenger seat, rolled my shoulders back and sniffed.

11:35Sure those weren't the last tears of the day. Still, I felt a little lighter for shedding them, for remembering how proud I was of her. The leaves at the tops of the trees along the highway were turning. And when we stopped for gas, an hour out of town, and I stepped out of the car to stretch my legs, the breeze was cool and fresh. We wandered into the shop and I laughed at myself, remembering the road trips when she was little, when we'd had to negotiate in these moments. One thing, she could get one thing, not a drink and a candy bar, not gum and chips, just

12:38one. Now I was offering her everything I saw. Was she hungry? Was she thirsty? I asked. Did she need one of these keychains with her initial on it? They have granola bars? I told her. I'm good. She said again and again. Yes, you are. I affirmed and dropped an armful of snacks and sodas on the counter anyway. Back on the road, creeping closer to college, I heard her breath get slow and deep and opened the visor mirror to peek into the back seat. She was asleep. Her head tipped onto the stack of bath towels. I'd washed and folded the day before.

13:42I wanted them to at least start out, smelling like home. In the front seat, we whispered about her, held hands over the cold coffee cups in the console. Orientation is tomorrow. She needs to be at the library by nine. Yes, dear. You have mentioned that a few times. I know it just helps me to talk through it. When we got off the expressway, my nudged her knee and teased her with the line I used to say to her when she was a kid. Put your shoes on, baby, where at grandma's house. She smiled at me with her eyes still shut.

14:48She hadn't decided on a major yet. She hadn't even decided if she wanted to try out for the track team. We'll just run for fun when she had the time. I wondered if it was as clear to her as it was to us that the world was her oyster, that all roads lay open before her, and that she could excel in and enjoy so many things. I tried to remember what I had understood about my own life when I was in the same spot. I think I only saw a few feet in front of me. Only to the end of the semester, the auditions for the spring show, the summer job back home.

15:55That short-sightedness had had me frequently turning too far in one direction, then over correcting in the other. That had taken a while to land my feet on a path that felt right. How would it be for her? In the parking lot of her dorm, there were dozens of the same scene playing out with slightly different components. Here with siblings, here with a grandparent, or a family friend, there with fancier furniture or fewer boxes. We all trumped up the stairs or rode the elevators, carried in cartons, and attempted to help

17:00make up beds. Eventually, there was nothing left to do. Room mates had been met. Bookshelves stopped. Desks moved about for maximum space. As we walked back out to the station wagon with her between us, our arms over each other's shoulders. I saw the beautiful commons, noticed the old brick buildings, the archways and worn iron benches, and remembered that this was exciting and about her. So when I caught her up for one last hug, there was a genuine smile on my face.

18:10I can't wait to see. I whispered in her ear, what you'll do next. Moving in. The station wagon was packed. And it had been unpacked and repacked twice already. We'd been putting things together all summer, a box of books here, a desk lamp, and shower caddy there. And it hadn't seemed like much stuff when it came in a piece at a time. But as we began to wedge things into the back of the wagon, all of it seemed to have

19:20multiplied while we weren't looking. Sheets and comforter, pillows, and a new book bag. Laundry baskets full of clean, folded clothes, a bundle of hangers, shower slippers, and toiletries, and her favorite snacks to see her through study sessions. We fussed over how to arrange it all, doing our best to leave no hoodie or extension cord behind. Though she was so much less worried about it all than we were.

20:30Which we supposed was exactly how it should be. She was looking ahead to a year of adventure, new friends, new experiences. We were holding on to the rhythms of the life we'd lived together. Since we brought her home from the hospital and her car seat. It made making sure she had the shampoo she liked. It was all very important to us. Less so to her.

21:31By mid-morning, only about an hour after we'd hoped to be on the road, we were finally pulling out of the driveway. She was in the middle of the back seat, buckled in between a fluffy new comforter, and an awkward stack of running shoes, a hamper full of bath towels, and a small trash can, silently holding a surge protector, her hairbrush, and four kinds of chargers. A neighbor who had babysat for her when she was little stopped by for a good luck hug

22:39and handed over a tray of coffees from the cafe and a bag of rolls and muffins from the bakery. So we each had a warm cup in hand as we made our way through the streets of our neighborhood. I was thinking about her riding her bike up and down these familiar blocks. Her in her Halloween costume coming back to me on the sidewalk between each front porch to tell me what treat she'd gotten.

23:48Her running over the curb at the corner while she was learning to drive, my turned my face to the window and tried to take a deep breath, reminding myself that she would be home for Thanksgiving, and never more than a few hours away. She reached her hand up from the back seat and squeezed my shoulder, and I leaned one damp cheek against it. She was good like that, even so young still.

24:51She could be with me, with us, with her friends, and the kids she coached in track and just let us feel how we felt. I tried to jostle us out of it before we were ready to stay a moment with us. I padded her hand with mine and sat up a bit taller in the passenger seat, rolled my shoulders back and sniffed. Sure that those weren't the last tears of the day. Still, I felt a little lighter for shedding them.

26:01I was so proud of her. Believes at the tops of the trees along the highway were turning. And when we stopped for gas, an hour out of town. And I stepped out of the car to stretch my legs. The breeze was cool and fresh. We wandered into the shop, and I laughed at myself, remembering the road trips when she was little. And we'd had to negotiate in these moments. One thing she could get one thing, not a drink and a candy bar, not gum and chips, just

27:18one. Now I was offering her everything I saw. Was she hungry? Was she thirsty, I asked? Did she need one of these key chains with her initial on it? They have granola bars, I told her. I'm good, she said, again and again. Yes, you are, I affirmed. And dropped an arm full of snacks and sodas on the counter anyway. Back on the road and creeping closer to college.

28:20I heard her breath get slow and deep. And I opened the visor mirror to peek into the back seat. She was asleep. Her head tipped onto the stack of bath towels. I'd washed and folded the day before. I wanted them to at least start out, smelling like home. In the front seat, we whispered about her, held hands over the cold coffee cups in the console. The orientation is tomorrow. She needs to be at the library by nine.

29:24Yes, my dear. You have mentioned that a few times. I know. It just helps me to talk through it. When we got off the expressway, I nudged her knee and teased her with a line I used to say to her when she was a kid. Put your shoes on, baby. We are at grandma's house. She smiled at me with her eyes still shut. She hadn't decided on a major yet. She hadn't even decided if she wanted to try out for the track team.

30:29We're just run for fun when she had the time. I wondered if it was as clear to her as it was to us that the world was her oyster. That all roads lay open before her. And that she could excel in and enjoy so many things. I tried to remember what I had understood about my own life when I was in the same spot. I think I only saw a few feet in front of me.

31:35Only to the end of the semester. The auditions for the spring show. The summer job back home. The short-sightedness had me frequently turning too far in one direction than over-correcting in the other. It had taken a while to land my feet on a path that felt right. How would it be for her? In the parking lot of her dorm, there were dozens of the same scene playing out with slightly

32:36different components. Here with siblings, here with a grandparent or a family friend, there with fancier furniture or fewer boxes. We all trumped up the stairs, eroded the elevators, carried in cartons, and attempted to make up beds. Eventually, there was nothing left to do. Roommates had been met. Bookshelves stocked. Desks moved about for maximum space.

33:42As we walked back out to the station wagon with her between us. Our arms over each other's shoulders. I saw the beautiful commons. Notice the old brick buildings, the archways and worn iron benches. And remembered that this was exciting and about her. So when I caught her up for one last tug, there was a genuine smile on my face.

34:45I can't wait to see my whispered in her ear. What you'll do next. Sweet dreams.