I missed yesterday’s writing, but it should count that I spent a good amount of time discussing writing with a friend — someone who is also working on his first novel. And the entire experience left me remembering how much I used to profess that thinking is the most important aspect of writing. Of course, that doesn’t make much sense if I never actually sit down to write after that thought, so here I am. Processing. And I’ll do that through this weekend considering my novel, moving things around, adjusting bits of my character’s life — bits of ideas that only come with letting writing sit for a while. Letting it sit for as long as I have is probably not a good thing, but that will change in a few days.
Tag: empty nest
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The Last Summer Vacation
It seems no matter where I am on the web right now, someone somewhere is headed Back-to-School. Mothers are sad summer is over (or secretly not), healthy lunches are discussed (or those not so healthy tsk-tsked over), and teachers are settling in with yet another year’s classroom full of children. The smell of crayons and freshly sharpened pencils waft through the streets.
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Cool August Mornings and a Mother’s Worries
It’s about that time. The heat of August has come like it always does and with it damp mornings that will always remind me of getting ready for a new school year to begin. As soon as the MoH is off to work, I putz around the pots and planters on my patio, snipping away the spent blossoms and sweeping the leaves that have dropped over the past day. The orb weavers have been out for a week now and trying to jockey for best web position for the season, their little orange bodies not quite adjusted to those of us who forget it’s their time in the garden now, and we crash into their hard work a couple of times before they teach us to remember, and look.
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College + Life: Year One
It’s been an interesting year and writing about it on July 6 is odd considering most people think about doing so on January 1 when they’re busy taking stock of their lives, yet again caught up in the idea of promising themselves the moon if only they might eat less, organize more, drink less, exercise more, want less, or earn more than they have in preceding years.
Go ahead. Just try and say that three times fast.
My reason for this reflection is to acknowledge my youngest son’s 19th birthday and with it, the conclusion of his first year of life away from home. No birthday cake and no wrapped prezzies. Out of tune renditions of Happy Birthday sung through a shared receiver. An agreed upon mini fridge for his dorm room being delivered shortly so he won’t have to walk to the corner for a snack or soda after remembering we tell him not forget to eat.
What strikes me as most significant about this past year is his adaptability. When others ask how he’s doing, we respond that he’s doing extremely well, loves San Francisco, has made friends, and is happy. He enjoys his classes, is interested in what he’s learning, and has a level head about how he’s doing performance-wise.
Those inquiring seem surprised by our assessment, and signs of that surprise lessening has coincided with an equal lessening of inquiries made. A collective huh if ever there was one.
Or, in the words of Wally and The Beav, “Go figure.”
The MoH would say I’m being irrational, but he listens to me as I blather on about it all being so curious. Not our son’s adaptability — others’ reactions to it. Perhaps everyone had their doubts. If a kid doesn’t exude hard charging in-your-face drive while he’s growing up, then the assumption is that he’s unmotivated — or even incapable, I suppose. If he’s not wielding a bat, or tackling someone on the opposing team, swinging, pedaling, spiking, serving, then maybe, just maybe he lacks muster. Stick a mirror under his nose to see if he’s breathing, I guess.
But I know better. Still waters run deep.
When I think of my youngest, I’ve come to the conclusion he quietly indulged his father and I all our fussing over him throughout his childhood. Even my mother has muttered, “Well, he has been somewhat sheltered.” But bear in mind that much of the fussing was our attempts at not acting like we were fussing instead of actually fussing which had to be comical on most days, exhausting others. He endured it — and us — with patience, grace, and a quiet but determined focus to carry on with his interests his way. The occasional flat-browed silence following the semi-terse exchanges one expects between a teenager and his parents notwithstanding, of course.
He continues to indulge us, tolerating requests to have an online chat at a particular time on a specific day, numerous texts from his father (I lack that function on my cell, lucky kid), and horror of all horrors to many others his age, I’m sure — comments on his facebook wall.
You gotta love parents who don’t get it — or act like they don’t get it. That would be us. But we do get it, which is why we’re omnipresent — well, sort of — in his life from a manageable distance of 600 miles or so. Not quite helicoptering, but close. Very, very close. Telescopic helicoptering? I wish.
After getting his driver’s license in the nick of time late last summer and with no practice until returning home this June for a short four weeks, after one reminder session with the MoH, he was on his own, remembering to ask if I had plans to use the car before driving away to meet with friends. Suppressing the urge to sneak out the front door to snap 10 or 20 photos of him driving off the first time by himself, I had a little talk with God about keeping him safe instead. And I’m not one who talks to God, but the stars weren’t out, so I couldn’t see talking to a sunlit sky making sense. I count myself lucky that I didn’t have to deal with the worry of his wanting to drive when he was 16. The three years’ wait time gave me a chance to mature a bit or find out a few screws were loose.
I think what I miss about him the most is the conversation we’d have. A glimpse into what he was interested in (sci fi, video games, modeling…) and what he found funny (LOL cats?) was always an excuse to stop what I was doing to listen, watching his eyes as he talked, the start of a smile thinking about what he was telling me. Nice kid.
It’s a challenge to get much out of him on the phone now, and worried he might feel compelled to talk to “Mom,” I usually make it brief and on the not so fuzzy side of things I warned him I’d remind him of periodically, like, “Are you eating enough, and washing your hair? Taking showers, cleaning your face, putting on your deoderant?” before he cuts me off with an even-toned, “Mom” and patient explanation that he is, in fact, taking care of all of those things. Good answer.
You’re wincing, I’m sure, but someone has to remind him. It might as well be me. Call it a public service.
The MoH and I are fairly jealous that he’s getting this opportunity. That he gets to be in our favorite city every day, and when he leaves his dorm for class, it’s to walk among those who live there, work there, and vacation there. And then there are those who hang around the streets there, too, but that’s part of life, isn’t it? Knowing when to be aware, safe. It feels like we’ve made two steps in one with this experience of sending him out into the world — that he’s getting his education, but he’s getting it in a big city instead of on a traditional college campus.
We’re happy for him.
And proud.
Happy Belated, Doog. We love you.
p.s.
Has your mini-fridge arrived yet?
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All Summer in a Day
It’s funny that when you’ve waited long for something and it finally arrives, time slows to a crawl. It’s there, right on your doorstep but not quite ready to enter because it’s not quite time. I’m not the only one affected by this because I can hear my son in his room next door not doing much of anything. Yet again, checking the insistent tone in my voice, I’ve had to tell him that he needs to pick up his room. That I do not want to be left after we’ve dropped him off at school to come back home and see what’s left of his teenaged boyness strewn around the floor and on every surface, forcing me to acknowledge for the thousandth time how fast time passes. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was suspicious that I had plans for his room in his absence. Plans like, ridding our house of all evidence of his having inhabited the space for nearly a decade and putting up ruffled curtains, or painting it pink.
I’m sitting here instead of forcing things to move along more quickly in the day, but it’s conditioned response. My reasonably gentle prodding requires being within earshot of him to make sure he’s doing what he needs to do to get ready. It takes more time in the long run, but it’s good for me on the patience practicing front, and it’s good for him because let’s face it: he’ll be doing all of it on his own after tomorrow without the up close and personal variety of insistent prodding or reminders. They’ll be relegated to email and Skype instead.
Have you washed your hair? Done your laundry? How are your classes? Is your roommate a nice guy? Are you brushing your teeth, flossing your teeth, staying on top of your organization?
The contents of his day-to-day existence have steadily begun to fill my office — stacks of jeans, shorts, and tee shirts lining up against the bookcases. We stand looking at them as if they were something remarkable.
Me: Are three pair of jeans enough?
Him: I probably need a couple more.
Me: (holding up a dingy yellow tee) This one’s seen better days. If it’s a favorite, leave it here, otherwise, throw it in the discard pile.
Him: What’s wrong with it?
And then another laundry lesson begins about light colors being separated from dark when the weekly wash is completed. He’s been doing his laundry for a couple of years now, but I have to make sure, telling him something he knows already.
Economy sized bottle of detergent. Check. Even larger economy sized toilet paper package. Check. Body wash, shaving cream, toothpaste, dental floss…check. I wandered through the book section at Target last week after sending him off to get his personal supplies, the image a doting mother leading her 18-year-old son around to choose his deodorant not appealing to me even though I know he wouldn’t mind.
The sounds of hustle bustle next door have stopped again and a quick look around me reveals a few more items lying in wait– guitar, art supplies, a few of his favorite books — but I can tell he’s once again parked in front of his computer. The computer that’s staying here. The new laptop arrives today, just in time to be experimented with and the Wacom tablet hooked up to make sure everything works. Are 24 hours really enough for a day like this?
It’s 10am and things are finally going into the soft duffle bag with rollers we purchased a few years ago with this very moment in mind. Thankfully, there’s a second for the bits of this and that he’ll need — things that feel semi-familiar.
Will you have your own desk? Is there a lamp? Are there hangers in the closet? I’ve asked all these questions before and have been patiently told, yes. Yes, they’re all there. But what about something for your desk? Something to keep pencils in, or folders for important papers? He and the MoH were there on a dorm tour recently, so I’ve been assured that everything is just fine. But no mini fridges, no microwaves, and no used furniture is allowed. And definitely no pets, which is sad for Lizzie who clearly loves him more than anyone else here. He’s had to push her aside more than once as he filled the large duffle bag, trying to keep her out of it. For now, she’s content to make a nest on the clothes he’s put aside to wear tomorrow, her paws kneading the worn fleece before settling down to bathe, confirming that he’ll have cat hair on his clothes when he leaves just like any other day.
By this time tomorrow, we will have dropped him off at his dorm and helped him carry everything to his room. If we’re lucky, we’ll get to meet his roommate, but I’ve been told he thinks he can handle making his bed himself. Of course this is something I’ve always known, but he’s yet to make his bed once in his life, so the experience should be interesting. Bear in mind I’ve not made his bed many times, either, but I can think of many things I’d rather do than to make up a bunk bed. I wonder if he’ll have the top bunk or the bottom?
He’s semi-packed now and in the shower. We’re off to get his bi-annual haircut, pick up some new earphones and maybe assemble a junkfood stash for his dorm. It would be perfect to be able to put him in my car so he could take care of these last minute things himself, leaving me to fuss over the details, but after all the hassle of getting his driving permit, lessons, practice, and a last second driver’s test, he doesn’t like driving. Go figure. At least he’ll have some ID, right?
I wonder how he’ll feel about being in a big city away from just about everything he’s always known and depended upon?
Oh, my.
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Empty Nest Syndrome
It’s been just more than a month since I finished my year’s obligation and I’ve busied myself with all sorts of things I wouldn’t exactly describe as constructive. The weather here has been far less than summery, with the only warm day arriving today when within sight of the Pacific we’ve actually mustered up an admirable 82 degrees. With an almost non-existent summer, I can only say that constructiveness must be connected to the things I expect at any given time during the year. A matter of rote. Habit.
Better said, I’ve been spending my time processing the fact that I not longer work doing something I’ve done for more than 20 years, but this time for good. I’ve also been processing that after mothering three boys, my youngest is headed off to school, leaving the MoH and I with a seriously empty nest. I think that, more than anything, with all of its unknowns, has caught us completely by surprise.
It’s a bit of a choking sensation for me, felt when I least expect it. It overwhelms me with its intensity, and I unrealistically imagine bears and woods, sinking boats, and other disasters I can’t help my son from. How ridiculous is that? Seriously.
But we still need to find our corners occasionally to weep silently in the middle of an unrelated conversation until one of us notices that the other has stopped his or her side of the conversation. And then one of us knows. We know that the empty nest syndrome has enveloped one of us and so the other quietly excuses him or herself to allow the sorrow to pass.
What the hell.
This should be a time of celebration. It should be a time for looking forward to all that lies ahead. The future. Opportunity. Yadda yadda yadda.
I try. Honestly, I do. And it works most of the time on most days.
I busy myself with planning a trip to the UK in the fall. As someone who lived her professional life married to a school calendar, trust me. I want to travel in the fall when everyone else is at work or in school. It’s just that one moment on that one day on that one afternoon. All it takes is a look, and then I’m toast.
We’ve purchased bedding for his dorm room. We’ve paid for the housing and food. We’ve reviewed books and supply lists and have made plans to purchase them here then drive them up. But time is dwindling. More than 30 years raising boys. More than 20 years teaching other people’s children.
It will take a bit of time to adjust.
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Road Trips and Empty Nests
It’s that odd time of year when the heaviness of gloomy June skies have given up the fight and succumbed to summer. In a few short weeks, all the weather you might attribute to the most southern corner of California has graced us with its seemingly relieved presence: blue skies clear enough for skywriters to appear, warm dry Santa Ana winds, damp nights when the sea air only begrudgingly wafts through open windows, and this morning, fog.
The RTR is on summer break and for the first time in his life since beginning school at the age of three, he’s home alone for nearly the entire 10 weeks. No camp, no classes, no arranged visits with relatives, and absolutely no agenda. Since I’ve been back to work for a couple of months now, he’s here each day most likely lost in a world that is unique to him — one more and more filled with what it appears to be his choice of direction in life. He draws and paints, develops fierce mechanical robot images and plays interactive video games at his computer. He wants to study game design.
I’d like to say that the past few years that I’ve been at home, I’ve had a positive influence on his quiet life, and at this point hope that whatever did come from our time together — more than we’ve spent together in his life — is far more lasting than what I’d originally intended: to keep an eye and ear out for him with respect to school and responsibility in general.
Yes, I actually said that. But I’ve learned quite a bit with this youngest of mine, and although we’re quite a long way from finding out whether he’s truly the strongest of us all, or whether he’s the absent-minded gentle boy I’ve always thought him to be, I suspect he’s a little of both, and we’ve barely a year left to send him on his way to find out for himself.
We’ve had little time or money for an elaborate vacation this year, and so we seized the opportunity to fly to San Francisco to tour the school he wants to attend. The plan was to spend a day in the city, take the tour the next morning, and then rent a car and drive up to Mendocino, a town I’ve wanted to visit forever.
Outside of my coming down with the strangest flu of sorts and being completely out for the count for two solid days, we made it to San Francisco just fine. I wouldn’t have missed the tour of this school for anything because I honestly have many hopes attached to it like I suppose most parents are inclined to, even if the circumstances surrounding that desire aren’t the best.
When the RTR was a freshman or sophomore, a visitor came to speak at his art class and the person made such an impression that the RTR made an effort to tell me about it without my routine inquiry about his day. I’ll never forget listening to him tell me about it because the focus of his interest was that he only needed a high school diploma to get in. No SAT scores. No AP credit. Just. Graduate.
It has been quite the journey since that day, and we’ve watched him do quite well in all of his classes each Fall semester, and then fall completely apart in the Spring. We’ve planned with him, discussed options for Plan B or C when Plan A clearly wasn’t working, we’ve tried to motivate and outright bribed him. We’ve threatened with images of our version of the real world although we weren’t completely convinced we wanted to be the part of that option we might have to be.
Deciding to save my breath and his ears this year has been a definite giving in. Yet again, I’ve caved to the strength of the passive genes my boys all clearly have. It’s amazing. But the school was amazing, and while on that tour, I found myself envious, pushing away the what ifs and if onlys that kept rising up in me. It’s an urban campus with buildings spread out all over the city with a timed shuttle that carries students to and from their classes and dorms. I watched as a student here and there walked by, laptop bags slung over shoulders, ears wired to iPods, Starbucks in hand. I imagined my son there and saw him fitting in at least from an external appearance — minus the coffee.
The million dollar question — no, make that almost $30,000 since that’s what will come out of our pockets to pay for this each year — is whether being in that environment where he won’t have to deal with calculus, or arcane subjects that aren’t directly related to his focus of study, where he’ll be able to take studio classes right away instead of having to wait until general ed requirements are satisfied will help him understand that life requires us all to complete basic tasks we don’t necessarily want to, nor enjoy. That sometimes, they are painfully challenging, but we have to do them anyway. That in spite of our angst, we often grow the most and admit to learning the best from those lessons that seem only to be hurdles in our path. Like parenthood at times. Like being the parent of children who quietly meander in a direction only they seem to understand at a pace that I swear is intended to make me crazy.
I’m convinced now that I’m down to my last year and facing empty nest syndrome square in the face, that I’m the one who has learned the most. I’ve learned that if I had it to do all over again, very few things would change. But I would wonder about the strangeness of life’s plan and our response to it. To whom it carries along and to those it mystifies.
I will also hold my breath this last year and continue to wonder why, why, why, why if all he needed was a high school diploma to get into that art school, he would seemingly intentionally fail a semester of English. He told me he just didn’t do the work. That he waited, and then it was too late.
Yes, life’s like that. It’s like that all the time.
