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Wow. Been here before. Phew. Yikes. I wish somebody had a "how to manual" for this. Hmm...there's an idea. Maybe I will write it.
How to get through the day your kids move across the country.
The thing is, I've been doing this since 2003 when my daughter left for college in Washington State. You'd think I'd be used to it by now! I know the drill. The duffel filled with clothes. The boxes stacked in the hallway waiting to be shipped. The bedroom looking .... still...museum-like. All the stuff of their childhood staring back at me - as if to say, "Yes, it went fast. They told you it would. And it did."
This time is easier by a degree. The difference is, my son is not going off to school - he's moving to Chicago
for a job.
That sounds so.... so grown up!
Helloooo!!!
He is.
So I must behave myself. No big emotional scenes.
Be helpful but not overbearing.
Walk that line.
Not too much mothering.
Breathe.
I mean he is going to Chicago not Afghanistan. Keep this in perspective.
And I love Chicago.
I mean, hey, one kid in New York. One in Chicago.
Just keep those frequent flyer points coming.
I've spent a lot of time booking flights over the years for my kids.
For her
Four years back and forth
Off to college at UW
Long Beach to Seattle
Seattle to Long Beach
Study Abroad
LAX to Prague
Prague to LAX
LAX to Paris
Paris to LAX
Back to UW
LAX to Seattle
Seattle to Long Beach.
Home for two years
Off to NYU
Back and forth
Long Beach to JFK
JFK to Long Beach.
Long Beach to JFK
For him
Off to college at Villanova
OC to Philly
Philly to OC
OC to Philly
Philly to USC - I mean OC
Today, a new route.
LAX to Chicago.
So the nest will officially be empty as of today.
Their rooms are here for when they come "back to California" for a visit.
Thanks, Steve Jobs, for face time.
Right now at this juncture, I realize how important it is to marry the right person and have a life of your own!
When the child-rearing, college -commuting, twenty-something -gypsy-parent-stage is over -
it's back to where you started - only a little older, grayer, rounder, and wiser.
So tonight, we head off to a party with some friends from college.
Misery loves company.
Showing posts with label parenthood. Show all posts
Showing posts with label parenthood. Show all posts
Saturday, January 28, 2012
Sunday, October 2, 2011
Empty Nesters
"It's just you and me, kid," I said to Steve after it was clear that Brendan wasn't going to be coming home this weekend for dinner. We left the Coliseum after the USC football game and pondered our next move. "Let's go to El Cholo's," I suggested. This, a throwback to our college days of post-game festivities.
Where did thirty years go? I know this question hits everyone at some point, but as my thirtieth college reunion approaches, I'm simply flabbergasted at the passage of time.
Friday, on my way home from school, I had an overwhelming sense of longing for Gillian. It was four o'clock our time. I texted her. "I always seem to miss you at 4:00 on Friday afternoon." The weekend looming, I yearn for mother -daughter time.
A one liner in response.
"I miss you too."
Thud.
It's finally sinking in.
We, are empty nesters. Our "children" have flown the coop. They have lives distinctly separate from ours.
Their bathroom sits, frozen in time for weeks on end - the towels untouched - waiting. There is no need to stock the fridge with their favorite foods. I air out their bedrooms and notice the piles of stuff left untouched in corners and it hits me. Their rooms are like mini-storage for what they decided they didn't really need. Their rooms have a temporary feel to them awaiting a visit - they are mostly uninhabited.
This week, I began to notice just how much time Steve and I are spending together, especially since we commute in the same car most days.
We wake up - have our first cup of coffee. Glance at the headlines in the newspaper. Get into the car and head off by six fifteen in the morning.
He drops me off at school.
After my rehearsal, he picks me up, we drive home and report to one another about the twelve hours we were apart.
Next, we tackle dinner - if I was proactive over the weekend, there are tuppers filled with hearty soup, a stew in the crock pot, or something marinating, ready to be thrown onto the grill. If I was lazy - we hit Islands, or Super Mex, or Mimi's Cafe for a bite before arriving at home.
By this point in our evening, we've already talked about the day - so conversation turns to politics, the poorly maintained sidewalks in our neighborhood, the collapsing seawall, or some other topic of interest.
We clear the table, clean up the kitchen, and set out for a walk. We come back, sit on our front patio and take in the salt air, happy to be living near water.
We used to treat ourselves to the occasional frozen yogurt from Golden Spoon until the shop closest to our house closed its doors this summer.
Our ultimate goal is to have our heads hit the pillow by nine thirty as a defense against the five- fifteen in the morning alarm.
On the weekend, we often go to the grocery store together. We kayak, read the newspaper, and watch our favorite shows that we have DVR'd during the week like The Office and Curb Your Enthusiasm, or watch CNN and complain about Anderson Cooper - or pop in a DVD of Madmen or a Ken Burn's documentary . Lately, it's been Baseball. Before that, Jazz.Before that Civil War. We fall asleep to Frasier.
Our two cats, Hobie and Lido, who we fondly refer to as "the boys" are always happy to see us. Bounding down the street at the sound of our car, they greet us as if they were dogs. We talk to them as if they were people. This, I'm quite sure, is a direct result of not having children at home.
No need to shop for school supplies, school clothes, school shoes. No need to calendar all the sports schedules or back to school nights or plan the trip to parent weekend. We are not only empty nesters, we are post-graduate parents - the days of college visitations that dominated our lives for years - behind us. Now, we just open the mail and groan at the student loan hangover. I don't think I'd realized just how all consuming parenting was. I am only now realizing how strange it feels to no longer be "head coach" of our children's lives. Now they have to carry the ball and run to the end zone on their own. We are relegated to the side lines - cheering them on.
We watch our children from afar and wonder where their lives will take them. What choices they will make. Where their careers will lead and where they will end up living.
The empty nest is a new stage of life for us. In some ways it is a return to the beginning - when it was just the two of us. I suppose our parents wondered the same things about us thirty years ago.
In some ways the empty nest is freeing. I just haven't quite gotten used to it yet. All I can say, it's a good thing Steve and I like each other, because for the next thirty, "It's just you and me, kid."
Where did thirty years go? I know this question hits everyone at some point, but as my thirtieth college reunion approaches, I'm simply flabbergasted at the passage of time.
Friday, on my way home from school, I had an overwhelming sense of longing for Gillian. It was four o'clock our time. I texted her. "I always seem to miss you at 4:00 on Friday afternoon." The weekend looming, I yearn for mother -daughter time.
A one liner in response.
"I miss you too."
Thud.
It's finally sinking in.
We, are empty nesters. Our "children" have flown the coop. They have lives distinctly separate from ours.
Their bathroom sits, frozen in time for weeks on end - the towels untouched - waiting. There is no need to stock the fridge with their favorite foods. I air out their bedrooms and notice the piles of stuff left untouched in corners and it hits me. Their rooms are like mini-storage for what they decided they didn't really need. Their rooms have a temporary feel to them awaiting a visit - they are mostly uninhabited.
This week, I began to notice just how much time Steve and I are spending together, especially since we commute in the same car most days.
We wake up - have our first cup of coffee. Glance at the headlines in the newspaper. Get into the car and head off by six fifteen in the morning.
He drops me off at school.
After my rehearsal, he picks me up, we drive home and report to one another about the twelve hours we were apart.
Next, we tackle dinner - if I was proactive over the weekend, there are tuppers filled with hearty soup, a stew in the crock pot, or something marinating, ready to be thrown onto the grill. If I was lazy - we hit Islands, or Super Mex, or Mimi's Cafe for a bite before arriving at home.
By this point in our evening, we've already talked about the day - so conversation turns to politics, the poorly maintained sidewalks in our neighborhood, the collapsing seawall, or some other topic of interest.
We clear the table, clean up the kitchen, and set out for a walk. We come back, sit on our front patio and take in the salt air, happy to be living near water.
We used to treat ourselves to the occasional frozen yogurt from Golden Spoon until the shop closest to our house closed its doors this summer.
Our ultimate goal is to have our heads hit the pillow by nine thirty as a defense against the five- fifteen in the morning alarm.
On the weekend, we often go to the grocery store together. We kayak, read the newspaper, and watch our favorite shows that we have DVR'd during the week like The Office and Curb Your Enthusiasm, or watch CNN and complain about Anderson Cooper - or pop in a DVD of Madmen or a Ken Burn's documentary . Lately, it's been Baseball. Before that, Jazz.Before that Civil War. We fall asleep to Frasier.
Our two cats, Hobie and Lido, who we fondly refer to as "the boys" are always happy to see us. Bounding down the street at the sound of our car, they greet us as if they were dogs. We talk to them as if they were people. This, I'm quite sure, is a direct result of not having children at home.
No need to shop for school supplies, school clothes, school shoes. No need to calendar all the sports schedules or back to school nights or plan the trip to parent weekend. We are not only empty nesters, we are post-graduate parents - the days of college visitations that dominated our lives for years - behind us. Now, we just open the mail and groan at the student loan hangover. I don't think I'd realized just how all consuming parenting was. I am only now realizing how strange it feels to no longer be "head coach" of our children's lives. Now they have to carry the ball and run to the end zone on their own. We are relegated to the side lines - cheering them on.
We watch our children from afar and wonder where their lives will take them. What choices they will make. Where their careers will lead and where they will end up living.
The empty nest is a new stage of life for us. In some ways it is a return to the beginning - when it was just the two of us. I suppose our parents wondered the same things about us thirty years ago.
In some ways the empty nest is freeing. I just haven't quite gotten used to it yet. All I can say, it's a good thing Steve and I like each other, because for the next thirty, "It's just you and me, kid."
Saturday, March 26, 2011
March Madness
The rain had stopped and the palm trees swayed against the bright, four o'clock day- light savings March sky. The combination of sky, palm tree, and depression weighed heavily on me. The brightness of the afternoon sky cast a shadow of sadness across everything. I watched the palm trees bend in the wind and thought," I hate palm trees." There is something so removed about them - I felt mocked by their dance. Towering above me against that bright sky, the gloom engulfed me.
I didn't know why. Lack of sleep? Exhaustion? Migraine medication hang over? Lent?
This month, four years ago, I waited for my mother to be cremated on a day much like this one. On that day, I wanted a cave not an expansive sky.
She died on the first day of spring.
Five years before, my friend Ellen's fifteen-year-old son, Ian, was hit by a car. He died on St. Patrick's Day. Corned Beef and Cabbage has never tasted the same.
This year, a tsunami hit Japan leaving a landscape of loss. One story I read about in the paper, told of two parents who returned to the flattened remains of the school where over one hundred children were swept away as they followed earthquake preparedness procedures, standing on the athletic field for forty-five minutes until the giant wall of water washed over them. The parents returned to search for the bodies of their two children. When they found them, they wrapped them in blankets and put them into the back of their car.
The playwright, Lanford Wilson died this month. I never knew him. But I knew his work. I read his plays, performed in The Rimers of Eldridge in college, and directed The Fifth of July. Wilson founded Circle Rep and mined the depths of human relationship through a style of writing that is often compared to Chekhov's. He is now silenced and what remains is a body of work that will likely be rediscovered, re-appreciated, and revived. Because he's dead. I wish I'd met him.
Last night when I returned home, my son's car was parked out front of our house. My heart leaped when I saw it. This month, just before Mardi Gras, he moved out. This time, the emptiness of the house felt more permanent.
I dashed inside, called out, but got no response. I fixed dinner, and in the back of my mind, waited for him to come through the front door. He never did. He drove off after having dinner at a local restaurant without stopping in to say hello.
I was caught off guard by this - my gloom heavier than it had been in the afternoon as I'd cursed the palm trees. I felt discarded and a little like a fool. I'd waited for him. Anticipated seeing him. My heart was ready for him. But he didn't come.
When I realized what had happened, I flew into a fury - the depression erupting like Vesuvius into rage. I fired off a text message ending with a half dozen question marks. Why??????? Why would you not stop in?????? Why????? I sobbed my eyes out alternating between hurt and anger. The lyrics from a song in the show I am currently directing taunted me. "Like an arc on uncharted seas, our lives will be tossed. And the deeper is your love for them, the crueler is the cost. The hardest part of love, is the letting go."
Don't need so much. Don't want so much. Don't cling so much. Don't love so much. Let go.
But the tears kept coming.
Do not discard me. I am your mother, I thought. You are my son. You are my son. You are my son. I cannot bear to be hurt by you.
And then I thought of my mother, who lost two of her sons.
And I though of my friend Ellen, who lost her only son.
And I thought of those parents in Japan, wrapping their children in blankets and loading them into the backseat of their car like cargo.
I cannot bear the grief.
The text message came back - it had been a thoughtless misstep. "I'm sorry" he wrote, "I'm really sorry" - the urgency of his regret palpable even through the cell phone. I knew he was.
Our emotions get all jumbled up sometimes. None of this is connected and yet it is all connected.
I still feel flat - still feel depressed. Likely a result of the adrenaline surge that I've endured the past few weeks working to get this show up. I'm glad I go to New York next week to see my daughter. I need to see her. I need a change of pace. I need some solitude. I need the anonymity of the city. I need to mother.
I need it to be April.
I didn't know why. Lack of sleep? Exhaustion? Migraine medication hang over? Lent?
This month, four years ago, I waited for my mother to be cremated on a day much like this one. On that day, I wanted a cave not an expansive sky.
She died on the first day of spring.
Five years before, my friend Ellen's fifteen-year-old son, Ian, was hit by a car. He died on St. Patrick's Day. Corned Beef and Cabbage has never tasted the same.
This year, a tsunami hit Japan leaving a landscape of loss. One story I read about in the paper, told of two parents who returned to the flattened remains of the school where over one hundred children were swept away as they followed earthquake preparedness procedures, standing on the athletic field for forty-five minutes until the giant wall of water washed over them. The parents returned to search for the bodies of their two children. When they found them, they wrapped them in blankets and put them into the back of their car.
The playwright, Lanford Wilson died this month. I never knew him. But I knew his work. I read his plays, performed in The Rimers of Eldridge in college, and directed The Fifth of July. Wilson founded Circle Rep and mined the depths of human relationship through a style of writing that is often compared to Chekhov's. He is now silenced and what remains is a body of work that will likely be rediscovered, re-appreciated, and revived. Because he's dead. I wish I'd met him.
Last night when I returned home, my son's car was parked out front of our house. My heart leaped when I saw it. This month, just before Mardi Gras, he moved out. This time, the emptiness of the house felt more permanent.
I dashed inside, called out, but got no response. I fixed dinner, and in the back of my mind, waited for him to come through the front door. He never did. He drove off after having dinner at a local restaurant without stopping in to say hello.
I was caught off guard by this - my gloom heavier than it had been in the afternoon as I'd cursed the palm trees. I felt discarded and a little like a fool. I'd waited for him. Anticipated seeing him. My heart was ready for him. But he didn't come.
When I realized what had happened, I flew into a fury - the depression erupting like Vesuvius into rage. I fired off a text message ending with a half dozen question marks. Why??????? Why would you not stop in?????? Why????? I sobbed my eyes out alternating between hurt and anger. The lyrics from a song in the show I am currently directing taunted me. "Like an arc on uncharted seas, our lives will be tossed. And the deeper is your love for them, the crueler is the cost. The hardest part of love, is the letting go."
Don't need so much. Don't want so much. Don't cling so much. Don't love so much. Let go.
But the tears kept coming.
Do not discard me. I am your mother, I thought. You are my son. You are my son. You are my son. I cannot bear to be hurt by you.
And then I thought of my mother, who lost two of her sons.
And I though of my friend Ellen, who lost her only son.
And I thought of those parents in Japan, wrapping their children in blankets and loading them into the backseat of their car like cargo.
I cannot bear the grief.
The text message came back - it had been a thoughtless misstep. "I'm sorry" he wrote, "I'm really sorry" - the urgency of his regret palpable even through the cell phone. I knew he was.
Our emotions get all jumbled up sometimes. None of this is connected and yet it is all connected.
I still feel flat - still feel depressed. Likely a result of the adrenaline surge that I've endured the past few weeks working to get this show up. I'm glad I go to New York next week to see my daughter. I need to see her. I need a change of pace. I need some solitude. I need the anonymity of the city. I need to mother.
I need it to be April.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
I've Grown Accustomed To Her Face
I emerge from the bathtub. Soaking in the lavender salts she gave me for Christmas.
"Quality over quantity," she said as she distributed customized stockings to each of us.
The lavender salts came from L'Occtaine.
From the essential oil aroma therapy, I know they are quality bath salts.
The phone rings. I answer it.
"Is Gillian in?"
"No," I say. "She is not."
"This is Cook's Illustrated calling."
The tears brim again as they have all day off and on.
"Oh," I say.
The sales pitch.
I interrupt. This poor magazine subscription renewal salesman
does not need to hear my sob story.
I simply say,
"Gillian doesn't live here any more. She is starting graduate school so
this is probably not the time for Cook's Illustrated in her life.
But thank you."
Cook's Illustrated? Is this some kind of cosmic joke?
Gillian and I spent more time together in our little kitchen
than anywhere else over these last two and a half years.
We learned more about each other in our little kitchen over these two and a half years
than in her entire life.
She loves to cook. She taught me to love to cook.
A "Foodie", she temped at Bon Appetite. She mourned Gourmet Magazine's demise.
The name of her blog while living at home was Dine and Travel.
And now, she's off to New York for a graduate program in publishing at NYU...
and on my first night without her in the kitchen,
Cook's Illustrated calls?
Maybe it's that the adrenaline has gone out of me.
There has, after all, been a long emotional build to this day.
It began when she moved home.
New York has always been the goal.
There was the GRE class.
The test.
The test again.
The essay (when, after I read it, knew without a doubt that she had publishing in her DNA)
The letters.
The application.
The acceptance in five days.
Along the way there was horseback riding on
George.
Cupcakes.
Brannigan's.
Yen Sushi.
Blue Windows - her favorite shop on 2nd Street.
Trader Joe's.
Getting our toes done.
There was Hobie.
And Lido.
Cooking classes at Prep.
The writing workshop at Stanford.
Editing.
Critiquing.
Twitter.
Facebook.
Apple computers.
DPL
Mary Hunt
Every Day Cheapskate
SEO
Tags
Friends
And Katy.
There was Obama.
Hillary.
The debates.
The election.
The inauguration.
Dinner together nearly every night.
Heated conversations.
Wine.
Cheese.
Berry Cobbler.
Pumpkin Muffins.
Lemon Chicken.
Garlic.
Ginger.
Green beans.
And tea.
And over those two and a half years...
something was happening.
My daughter and I
were becoming friends.
Maybe it's that my hormones are out of whack.
Crying when there is nothing logical to cry about.
Her every dream has come true. Our every dream has come true.
It's what she has worked for. It's what we have worked for.
It's why she came back to live with us after graduating from college.
Maybe it's because between Mother's passing and Gillian's return home
my life has been bookended by my mother and daughter.
Both Virgo's.
Maybe it's because I'm an Aquarian.
"We've launched her," Steve said.
Yes. We've launched her.
It was time.
She is not a child.
She is the age I was when she was born.
She is assured.
Accomplished.
Beautiful.
Ripe and Ready for the Big Apple.
The phone rings.
It's Gillian.
"Quality over quantity," she said as she distributed customized stockings to each of us.
The lavender salts came from L'Occtaine.
From the essential oil aroma therapy, I know they are quality bath salts.
The phone rings. I answer it.
"Is Gillian in?"
"No," I say. "She is not."
"This is Cook's Illustrated calling."
The tears brim again as they have all day off and on.
"Oh," I say.
The sales pitch.
I interrupt. This poor magazine subscription renewal salesman
does not need to hear my sob story.
I simply say,
"Gillian doesn't live here any more. She is starting graduate school so
this is probably not the time for Cook's Illustrated in her life.
But thank you."
Cook's Illustrated? Is this some kind of cosmic joke?
Gillian and I spent more time together in our little kitchen
than anywhere else over these last two and a half years.
We learned more about each other in our little kitchen over these two and a half years
than in her entire life.
She loves to cook. She taught me to love to cook.
A "Foodie", she temped at Bon Appetite. She mourned Gourmet Magazine's demise.
The name of her blog while living at home was Dine and Travel.
And now, she's off to New York for a graduate program in publishing at NYU...
and on my first night without her in the kitchen,
Cook's Illustrated calls?
I've grown accustomed to her face. She almost makes the day begin.
Maybe it's that the adrenaline has gone out of me.
There has, after all, been a long emotional build to this day.
It began when she moved home.
New York has always been the goal.
There was the GRE class.
The test.
The test again.
The essay (when, after I read it, knew without a doubt that she had publishing in her DNA)
The letters.
The application.
The acceptance in five days.
Along the way there was horseback riding on
George.
Cupcakes.
Brannigan's.
Yen Sushi.
Blue Windows - her favorite shop on 2nd Street.
Trader Joe's.
Getting our toes done.
There was Hobie.
And Lido.
Cooking classes at Prep.
The writing workshop at Stanford.
Editing.
Critiquing.
Twitter.
Facebook.
Apple computers.
DPL
Mary Hunt
Every Day Cheapskate
SEO
Tags
Friends
And Katy.
There was Obama.
Hillary.
The debates.
The election.
The inauguration.
Dinner together nearly every night.
Heated conversations.
Wine.
Cheese.
Berry Cobbler.
Pumpkin Muffins.
Lemon Chicken.
Garlic.
Ginger.
Green beans.
And tea.
And over those two and a half years...
something was happening.
My daughter and I
were becoming friends.
Her joys her woes
Her highs her lows
are second nature to me now.
Like breathing out and breathing in.
Maybe it's that my hormones are out of whack.
Crying when there is nothing logical to cry about.
Her every dream has come true. Our every dream has come true.
It's what she has worked for. It's what we have worked for.
It's why she came back to live with us after graduating from college.
Maybe it's because between Mother's passing and Gillian's return home
my life has been bookended by my mother and daughter.
Both Virgo's.
Maybe it's because I'm an Aquarian.
"We've launched her," Steve said.
Yes. We've launched her.
It was time.
She is not a child.
She is the age I was when she was born.
She is assured.
Accomplished.
Beautiful.
Ripe and Ready for the Big Apple.
And yet, I've grown accustomed to her voice
to something in the air.
Accustomed to her face.
The phone rings.
It's Gillian.
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