No One Tells You To Beware of the Day After Graduation

You know the feeling when you let your kindergartner fill his own milk glass? You stand by bravely to the side watching him pour, knowing full well that it won’t end in a neat and tidy way, but allowing the experience to unfold before you nonetheless in the spirit of education. You see the splash of the heavy-handed initial pour as it slops out the top of the glass and splashes onto the counter and inevitably onto the floor. You watch almost in slow motion as the liquid fills the glass to the very top and actually clings tightly to the rim of the glass, almost like it has a skin, trying not to overflow. Then, in a millisecond, that one last drop breaks the seal and sends it all spilling over the top again.

Well that is exactly how I feel today-- like a glass that’s been filling and filling drop by drop until I am so full that I’m clinging tightly to the edges of my familiar world to hold it all in, to keep all the precious time tightly contained. But it just takes one tiny drop to send it all gushing over the top of the rim. I knew the fateful drop was coming. I guess I just didn’t know exactly how to prepare.

This was my son’s high school graduation weekend. A time filled with both relief and anxiety, hello’s and goodbyes, celebration and quiet reflection. A day I had both planned for and dreaded since he walked into Kindergarten. We’ve planned parties, entertained out of town guests, told and re-told favorite school day memories from preschool through senior year. It’s been an amazing journey and we topped it off with an amazing weekend of celebrations.

But, the bottom line is, I felt like I was drifting through the weekend, left with a lot of metaphors for so many feelings that are just too big to comprehend. It felt something like flying a drone over a forest and looking down at the trees, so tall and spectacular. Understanding the time and space it took for them to grow into such amazing beauty, but not fully able to absorb the magnitude of it.

I think leading up to this day I, I thought I knew how I would feel. I expected to cry when he walked across the stage, handsome in his cap and gown. I didn’t. I expected to be filled with the mixed emotions of both pride and joy along with a tinge of sadness at the monumental occasion. Instead, I just felt very, very full. Like my heart was stretching tight with so much to hold, so much I couldn’t quite feel it or understand it. I felt like I was searching all weekend for a way to describe the enormity of it all and to feel appropriately.

Now, I see that I’d become my own science experiment on surface tension, clinging tightly to the molecules of our familiar life as they were bulging like a skin over the top of the glass, not wanting to separate or let anything slip especially at the edge where this new unknown world gives us nothing to grab onto.

Today, now that the pomp and circumstance has calmed, I feel with clarity one thing-- that the one extra drop that caused everything to come spilling out, happened. No telling what exactly it was. It was not any one thing, or person or iconic moment. But, it happened. And now, today, I feel just a little emptier, flatter, a little more fragile, and uneasy. I now feel an entire flood of emotions all at once, as though all of the things I’d been holding in so tightly, now have plenty of room to slosh around and spill out. My brain knows that all is well, but my heart is not as sure and the tears I thought would come before are now spilling out unexpectedly. And while I certainly can and will begin again filling my bucket drop by drop, it’s still a new bucket. This morning the one thing I’m sure of is that I feel a kindred spirit with my half full cup of coffee.

Just An Ordinary Day

I think I have super hearing. I’ve trained my ear to know certain sounds. I know there is a creak in the stairs on the 5th one up. That sound could wake me up from a dead sleep since it’s usually followed by the entrance of a little blond head announcing he can’t sleep, has a stomach ache or some other middle of the night issue that requires mom to abandon another good night’s rest. I know the sound of their footsteps anywhere in the house, partly because they have the feet of cement blocks clamoring down the hallway, but party because I just hear them. I can hear them laughing from my visiting college freshman son’s room, lounging on the bed, sharing secret not-intended-for-mom’s-ears stories, but unknowingly giving mom an intense shot of overwhelming joy and security.

There is an incredible amount of comfort in the ordinary noise in our house. Dogs barking, the cat begging for food, the microwave dinging at 2am when popcorn is done for a basement full of boys. Doorbells, phones, music that’s not mine, video games, ball games, broken windows, hurry up’s, gotta go’s. The ordinary chaos that makes our family us and drives me crazy all at the same time. That’s what I’m learning to appreciate more everyday because those sounds are as precious as they are fleeting.

With one son gone at school, and a constantly traveling spouse, that leaves the mundane, day to day routine to me and my youngest son most days. We discovered a new normal fairly quickly once the dust and tears settled after the oldest transitioned to a college life and left his room quiet and neatly put away. It’s back to the days when the youngest was too young for school, just us at home. We now enjoy lunch and dinner for two most days. We run the house together as a team. We rattle around the house doing the same things we’ve always done, just with a few more echos since it feels bigger and a little hollow without all of us here adding to the messiness that over time exhausted me and yet filled me up all at once.

It’s only now, that all those mountains of little annoyances of routine life have been winnowed down to small piles, that I can appreciate all the little quirks of our family for what they really are. And it’s now that I see the comfort in them, opposed to anxiety. I can actually feel a physical reaction and calm in putting away dishes as my youngest packs up his backpack for “just another day” at school. His room, with piles of clothes both clean and dirty littering his floor, makes me smile, instead of launching into a litany of reasons why it shouldn’t be this way.

I know with glaring, crystal clear clarity why I’ve been feeling something so unsettling at times in all these familiar places of our home. It’s my trained ears. They’re on alert, but for no reason. It’s just me and the animals here again and it’s a new normal that leaves me feeling unraveled, not all together. I’m at loose ends, awkward in my own space. I’m completely caught up, nothing is pressing down on me to take care of, no one is tugging or pulling at me to go, do, see. I’m staring down the future.

So, I cling to the unexpected comfort I now feel in those familiar need-to-get-this-done moments that long ago made life so full of stress. The irony of it all stares at me because I realize it’s the natural order of things and yet it feels all wrong. I just didn’t think this would happen to me.  

Time to Re-Decorate Again

            It’s time to take down the Jack-o-lanterns and witches and put up the turkeys and pilgrims.  But, I am looking at the storage boxes, the same ones that I’ve lugged up the stairs from the basement for the last ten years (or more) and they seem bigger and heavier this year.  I’m not feeling very much energy for the project.  In fact I was tempted leave these turkeys in their box this year.  It’s not quite as electrifying a project as it was then my children were little and would enthusiastically embrace each new season’s décor with wonder and awe and glee at the prospect of anticipating what was ahead.  

            They will still help find a spot for the pilgrim family and they will help with the welcome turkey we always put by the front door.  But it will take a little coaxing and cheer leading to get it done.  The thing is, I really believe it’s a tradition they will remember long into the future and so I think it’s important that I dive in and get the project rolling, even if it feels a little like a chore. 

            Who knew it took actual work to keep these traditions alive and well.  I never saw it coming.  The traditions I grew up with were simple and straightforward, but traditions I still to this day hold near and dear to my heart.  Among the countless things I have to be thankful for every year is that I have those childhood memories of Halloween trick or treating, Thanksgiving meals together and Christmas anticipation of stockings and presents.

            What I don’t remember is how it all got done.  Of course I know now that’s because I wasn’t doing any of the work back then.  But I still know right where we hung the reindeer and where we put up the tree. That’s the gift my parents gave me and, of course, the same one I’m trying to give my own boys: the gift of happy traditions that travel seamlessly and effortlessly from pumpkin carving to turkey carving and to tree cutting.

            But behind the smoke and mirrors that create the illusion of ease and perfection is hard work and nerves of steel.  It would be easy to say I just decided not to decorate for Thanksgiving this year. It would be easier to let someone else cook the meal for the extended families.  It would be easier to house the holiday chaos anywhere else but here.  It would be easier to let someone else find ways to entertain a crowd that includes moody teenagers, dementia, special diets, and fragile off-balance walkers poised for a fall at every step.  It would be easier to let someone else clean up the spilled drinks, dripped gravy and inevitable broken dishes.  It would be easier just to let the TV entertain the crowd instead of putting on a bingo tournament or organizing front yard football games.  It’s tempting to say let’s go on vacation instead and forget the whole thing. 

            The only problem is that old adage; hard work is it’s own reward. It really is true.  It’s hard work to make these days of celebration happen but there is an undeniable reward when I fall into bed at night.  I know the truth is, I really don’t want to be anywhere else.  The whole entire day is our family holiday; the repeated menu that every person here can recite from memory, the chance to see how the kids have grown, to be together warm and full, the chance to have some laughs, take some pictures, play some games, build some memories.  And then once it’s all over one of my son’s will say, “That was fun!”  And the other will complain that we don’t get to have that same meal more often.  And I will know in my heart that my mission has been accomplished. 

            While it may be exhausting, and it’s certain not to be perfect, the end result will be good enough and somewhere deep inside these two boys of mine, there will live a warm memory of how our family celebrated the holidays at home. 

            

I Got This! (not)

            I recently interviewed a young first time mom.  Even though our chat was weeks ago, her words have resonated with me ever since.  I asked her how things were going with this new little person in her world for less than two weeks.  She had the typical response, noting how she and her husband were learning to live with less sleep, how they were learning more every day about making baby happy and how they were spending hours gazing at their new bundle of joy marveling at the miracle she is.   Then she said this,  “At first I felt like I didn’t know anything at all, but now that we’ve had her home awhile I am feeling like--we got this.” 

            Three words, we got this.  I felt like those three little words cut right to my heart.  The mom of 16 years in me smiled inwardly at her naïveté.  I, like all moms, know the kind of ride she’s in for.  And I know how many countless times I have allowed myself to think, even for a moment, “We got this!”

            But if there’s one thing parenting has taught me it’s that you can count on feeling exactly the opposite of that most of the time.  It feels a little like walking up one of those huge gravel piles at a quarry.  The footing continuously slips away under your weight, and you find yourself slipping backward, or fighting just to stay in place.

              I suppose there is something about human nature that prompts us to fool ourselves into a sense of confidence that we are on top of the challenge; ahead in the race; full of answers. But my experience time and again has been, just when I think I have things figured out, the rules change and you get a full dose of reality with another lesson in how much you don’t know.

            That new moms words resonate with me because I so desperately want to feel that little confident skip in my step, that inward confidence that I’m on top of things.  But what I really feel many times is inadequately equipped for the answers that life is demanding of me.  I feel unsure that the decisions I’m making are the right ones.  I feel, like I did all those years ago, so robbed that there is no instruction manual that came with these little darlings I share my world with.

            All I have is my gut.  It’s all I’ve ever had to go by at the end of the day.  But trusting that instinct sure isn’t easy.  Especially when it seems so many times like I’m on an island. 

            Lately I’ve been asking myself, am I the only mom who says no? It is not the fun answer.  It is not the popular answer.  It doesn’t make you your child’s friend.  But then, I keep telling myself, it’s not my job to be his friend.  And so I look right into those hopeful, pleading eyes and say it; no, you can’t go, or do, or buy, or whatever. Two letters that feel like the weight of the world sometimes.

            I try to stick to my convictions, even when it means giving up something more fun to remain true to a commitment.  I enforce a bed time even when others have long ago given that up.  I play the tough cop when it would be much more fun not to.  And I keep talking when I know they are begging me in their minds to shut up.

            All of this builds up now that we have entered the teenage years.   I’m proud to say I’ve taught them to be thinking young men, and they are now quite capable of a good debate, which can make that once rock solid stand you were taking actually feel pretty shaky at times.  But, even worse, now they retreat to a familiar silent stare, behind a poker face that gives up nothing when it comes to the meaningful stuff.

            The bottom line is that all of the years I have been a parent, I have almost never felt like, “I got this.” And now days, it feels like a cruel hoax that I ever will.  My spare time, my awake hours, my conversations with other moms, all of the effort I have left at the end of the day is to find a way to feel certain I’m on the right track.  I dream that things could be like a game show and when I get the answer right a bell would ding, ding, ding happily and when I’m getting it wrong there would be a loud buzzer to indicate that too.  Instead, what I feel is humbled by the huge responsibility, and so unqualified for the job at hand, that I am at times paralyzed  by my own fear and uncertainty, yet so determined to do my best not to mess it up that I keep pushing forward toward that allure that I might once again feel like, I got this, no problem. 

            I know why I smiled on the inside when that new mom shared her enthusiasm with me, because there must be some universal primal bond we share, no matter the stage of parenting, for celebrating the little victories, because I already know what is just around the corner, and I can appreciate just how precious that little moment really is.

             

           

           

             

Time For Bed

            The more things change the more they stay the same.  It is a fact I love bedtime.  It is today and has been since my kids were born, my favorite time of day.   And its not just because its when I finally get that desperately needed time to myself, although that’s worth it’s weight in bubble bath too.   And even though my family knows I do enjoy my sleep and could always use more of it, that’s not why I feel such a connection to this time of day either.  It’s bigger than that; too big to ignore and yet so small and simple it’s impossible to completely appreciate, so I’m constantly left wanting more. 

            It feels primal.  I think it’s a magical time of day, when the skies are turning to twilight, and we all know sleep isn’t far away.

            It started when the boys were babies.  Bedtime brought squeaky-clean cherub faces, in pajamas with feet, and special blankets for snuggling.  It was the time when they would finally calm down enough to rock and sing lullabies and stare back into my eyes until they would eventually give in to sleep and lay there snuggly and safe.  And in spite of my own exhaustion, I could still realize there was something about that time of day that I could trust to carry me through; and even though I may have felt empty, and tired and worn out, bedtime could fix it. 

            Later when we started reading books that magic only grew.   I wouldn’t trade crawling into bed or piling onto the couch every night with a stack of favorite books for a million dollars.   I looked forward to it as much as they did, to read and laugh and look at beautiful illustrations and almost always take more minutes than I promised.  I memorized those books.  I know right where we turned each page, and which gentle rhythm was the best just before tucking in, and which ones would get the biggest belly laughs.  And lying there shoulder to shoulder I could feel it rise up in me, warm and full, that feeling: joyful, peaceful, blissful, bedtime.

            It’s not that every single night was pure bliss.  There were the thousand requests to get teeth brushed and baths taken, and arguing about who touched who and who said what.  But tired tears always dried up quickly and it always ended the same way.

            I don’t even know when that changed, but eventually, they got old enough that they started reading their own books, and bedtime became just tucking in.  Even though I could still recite most of their favorite books page by page, it was time to move on.  So I found my own ways to make bedtime work for me. 

            Sometimes we all read our own books quietly to ourselves but snuggled in my bed.  Sometimes they read in their own beds.  But we still had tucking in time. That’s when we would drag out our good nights with long rituals of hugs, and kisses, and I would run back and forth from room to room, each time I’d leave one room the other would shout, “Just one more hug!”  I couldn’t stop hugging them! That’s when we invented the “air-hug”, because eventually the game had to come to an end. So when it came time for the last hug I would stand in their door, hold my arms out to the side and end the night with the words, “Air-Hug, I love you!” And they would throw their arms out wide and reply, “Air-hug back, I love you.” And it worked for all of us, that bedtime magic was still alive, and I would walk down their hall when we finally turned off the last light, with a huge sense of accomplishment and relief and peace.

            But time marches on.  This summer they have enjoyed staying up later than me, and I frequently find myself heading to bed while they are still lounging and eating popcorn and watching a movie.  Or, when I do say goodnight in their rooms, it is sometimes just a quick hug and kiss and I love you and that’s it. 

            I don’t know if I can have my magical bedtime for very much longer.  But I do know I won’t let go without a fight.  So, when I go to bed before them, I bring bedtime to me.  I have them come to my room and tuck me in with a hug and kiss.              And on the night’s I am in their dark rooms at bedtime, I’ve discovered that occasionally, if you look for it, the magic is still hiding in there.  It’s quiet and hard to find and it happens at the most unexpected times.  But if you’re not in a hurry, and you wait for it, every so often, just as I’m about to walk out the door, it happens.

“Hey Mom….”

            And just like that I’m sucked right back in, to sit on the side of their bed, looking into those same eyes I rocked and read to so many times, and listening to any sort of random observation, or telling jokes, or sharing more grown up thoughts. Sometimes we laugh, sometimes we figure out one of life’s challenges, sometimes we talk about our day or the next day and sometimes we just sit quietly and linger.  But always, in that little moment, I am thankful beyond words to say we still feel it.  It’s alive, that special magic is there, holding us suspended in time, until we’re finally ready for the very last air-hug.

Hats Off to the Hats in my Life

I wear a lot of hats around here.  Mother’s day seems a popular time to reflect on all those hats we wear, mom, wife, daughter, sister, aunt, cousin, friend, neighbor, but also, taxi driver, doctor, carpenter, chef, counselor, banker, janitor, philosopher, teacher, preacher, judge, jury and soon to be back seat driver. I like wearing all that headgear and to be honest, sometimes life might be a little more fun if there were an actual hat to wear when I had to be the bad cop. 

In reality, I don’t like to wear many hats outside of keeping my ears warm.  But I sure have had some great hats in my life, literally.  They may have been on someone else’s head, but they remain inside mine.  These are the hats that became so familiar that I still get a catch in my throat, a warm spot in my heart, or just a happy feeling when I spot one like them in a crowd because, in my mind, the head under those hats is crystal clear and that hat is like a time machine that takes me back.

   I can see Grandpa mowing the lawn, back and forth, past my cousins and me on an ordinary summer day.  But the hat on his head sits at a jaunty angle and is cocked just a little to one side, his signature look.   When he really wanted to show off he’d push it way up his forehead so it barely hung on, so we could have a better view of whatever little show he was putting on.  He never went anywhere without a hat that I can remember.  It was just a part of his act.  It was a part of him.  When I see that jaunty cap in a crowd…I see him.

Then along came my first son and low and behold the year he turned two, he discovered ball caps.  That kid wore a hat from sun up to sun down; from the moment he woke up, inside or out, for meals, naps and car rides, even to see Santa, for an entire year.  He had a couple of favorites that got a pretty good test in the summer months when they would be wet from his sweaty head.  But he refused to take them off no matter how we reasoned with him.  I can’t remember the first time he wanted to wear one, but I’m guessing it had to do with the players.

They were the giants down the street.  To him I’m sure it seemed they just magically showed up on that diamond we could see from our front yard, just a house down the block and across the street.  We didn’t even notice it when we moved in, but it turned out to be my son’s field of dreams.  Every day as soon as the weather turned warm from the time he was two to about four years old, he would repeat the mantra, “Let’s go see the players.”  It was like he was the tide being pulled by the moon; he just had to get over to see those players.

So, almost daily we would load up his baby brother in the wagon and make the journey to watch from high atop a hill as game after game unfolded on the field below.  Always, the constant in our trips was that ball cap marching ahead of me eagerly leading the way.  Or if I sat with his sleeping brother, I could watch that cap making it’s way along the fences, bobbing past the spectators to get a closer look. 

 And now I’m standing here on this familiar hill looking for another hat.   This time it belongs to one of the players, not a giant, but he’s taller than me.  He has that same march in his step and the same blue eyes and has returned to the scene of so many dreams dreamed.  From up here I can spot his hat as he steps onto the field over on that side of the fence for the first time, one of the players, and I know the moment is lost on him.  But it’s a big one for me.  And in that instant, I can almost see a little cap moving around the fences to sneak a little closer look.  Just for a moment it feels surreal. And it’s in that little snippet of time that I know for sure no matter how many hats I wear, none will ever compare to the other hats in my life.

Dotting The I's And Crossing The T's

I’m going to admit this right up front. I use punctuation in my texts. I know, I know, texting is a minimalist effort, less is more, words stripped to just a single letter, the fewer vowels the better. But I can’t do it. I’ve tried, but just can’t resist the urge. It’s like I crave that comma. My mind just can’t let my body hit send without that final period. It’s like a song ending on the note just before the final note. It leaves me feeling unsettled.
Since I have kids with phones, and a husband to travels frequently, I really do try to stay ahead of the curve and keep up with the latest technology. I actually love texting and the instant connection it offers at times when, in the “olden days”, we would just have been lost, or lonely, or bored or separated from life back home. It is worth gold to me to get a surprise midnight text from a sleepover that says, “luv u” or “gnite”.
I suspect that part of my affinity for marking up my texts may stem from my English Major college days, but it goes beyond that. It’s primal. I think those little insignificant twists, turns, lines and dashes along the pathways of our writing are such a metaphor for the same things along the pathways of life. A stretch? Maybe, but I really think it’s part of my addiction.
Here’s why. I firmly believe in finding small reminders in our hectic everyday lives to remember that the little things really are the big things in the end.
One of my favorite little things is to jump for joy. I force everyone in my family to do it now and then. And I mean we really do jump around the living room, fling our arms in the air and have a good hoot once in a while to celebrate. Now, sometimes my celebration is far more enthusiastic than others in my house, but I don’t care, because I know they need this! “C’mon, jump!” I urge them. “Who cares how we look--It feels so good!”
I just firmly believe some things shouldn’t slip past without the wild celebration they deserve, life’s too short. We have too many reasons not to jump around. I say, when you get one, grab a hold and jump. We need exclamation points in our lives! That’s why I really can’t hit send on an “I luv u!” text without the proper ending.
Like every family we are challenged to get everything done. We struggle to keep every plate spinning, and sometimes we crash. But life on high speed burns you out unless you can find a place to pause along the way.
Last week I was running behind, as I do many mornings, when I realized with a quick glance out the window, that I was missing something stunning. An amazing show that would last just a few minutes as the sun was coming up just perfectly. It was like a magic show, to see the morning frost reflect off of otherwise invisible spider webs. I actually pulled to the side of the road, to soak it in just for a minute, to marvel at the miraculous engineering work of those tiny dreaded spiders and the
diamond crystals shining so beautifully in a quiet, secret roadside garden. I felt so lucky that I had a chance to notice the comma in my life, to pause, if just for a few seconds or risk missing one of life’s ordinary miracles.
And of course sometimes we just need to stop. Period. This year the Christmas ads started before Halloween. And Thanksgiving really didn’t get much attention. We decided early in November we needed to find a way to make the season feel the way we want it to feel. We realized we needed to stop the noise around us. We needed to focus on a lot more than what to buy. We needed to not
just slow down, because sometimes that’s not enough. We needed ways to stop.
Everything. Period. That is a gift.
So, that’s why I am ruined when it comes to texting, at least the short and
sweet way. My life, it seems, is just incomplete without a nod to those little signs
marking our way.