Pieces of His Past

I was in my middle child's room changing the sheets after my mom's recent visit and made the mistake of hanging around in there for a little while looking at some of the things he left behind when he made his move to Rochester last fall.   I wasn't deliberately trying to make myself sad, but take a look at the picture:

This is the top shelf of his bookcase.  It holds artifacts of his whole life: favorite stuffed animals, his Kids' NIV Bible, a hacky sack, books I vividly remember reading to him at bedtime when he was in early elementary school, books he read himself during the summers of his college years, an old inhaler from his cross-country days, a pack of Buffalo Bills playing cards, and a commemorative glass mug from his college graduation.  Every time he comes home for a visit, I suggest that maybe he could go through some of the stuff in his room and decide what he wants to keep and what he's ready to part with.  I wouldn't mind getting rid of some of the clutter, but I really can't imagine going into his room and not seeing these pieces of his past on the bookshelf.  Suggestions?  If you're farther along on this path than I am, what did you do?  If you're not here yet, what clear-headed advice do you have?  For now (and probably for quite a while) these things will stay where they are, and I'll go on being happy and sad each time I look at them.

A Long Weekend

My mom's recent visit went just about the way I imagined it would, and it was lovely.  It felt like vacation with its slow pace, good food, good company, long walks, board games, and frequent laughter.  One problem with vacations is the letdown that often follows, and this weekend was no exception.  When Mom left Thursday night, she was accompanied by our kids who had made plans to visit their Pennsylvania cousins.  Somehow, I hadn't really anticipated the emptiness I would feel--I thought I'd finally gotten used to my kids' coming and going and the quiet house, but for some reason, the sudden absence of both kids at once hit my husband and me hard.  It was as if we'd both lost our footing and neither was able to steady the other.  Friday was an exasperating day--nothing went right from morning to night.  Saturday was stormy outside and in--we muddled through the day, but by evening our tempers were short, and we ended up having a stupid argument that at first appeared to be about other things but once we had cooled off and calmed down, we realized what was underneath it all: we both missed our kids and I missed my mom, and we didn't quite know what to do with ourselves.  Then Sunday dawned bright and clear, and we regained our equilibrium.  We slept late, watched a bit of Olympic tennis and the end of the women's road race, went to church, and then spent the afternoon cooking and relaxing and reading on the porch.  We had a layered Cobb salad for dinner (a dish that none of our kids would have liked but we loved), followed by a peach pie made with the local peaches I got at yesterday's farmers' market.  After supper we drove to the lake to watch the sunset. The peace and contentment that were missing Friday and Saturday are back.  And although I'll be happy to see our kids when they roll in around midnight, I'm grateful for this long weekend and for what it's taught me: to be thankful for the blessings we've had and for those that remain.

  

Frogs, Toads, and Things That Glow in the Dark

All three of my kids still have those plastic glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to the ceilings of their bedrooms right over their beds.  My middle child also had a glow-in-the-dark book about stars and planets, glow-in-the-dark paint, glow-in-the-dark balls, glow-in-the-dark stickers, and several little glow-in-the-dark plastic frogs.  As a matter of fact, thanks to me, he had a whole collection of frogs: plastic poison dart frogs, bean bag frogs, a frog that hopped when you gave it a puff of air, frogs that squirted water, and a frog whose tongue popped out when you squeezed it.  He also had all the Frog and Toad books (by Arnold Lobel), A Toad for Tuesday, and Warton and Morton (by Russell Erickson).   I used to tell people, "Darton loves frogs and toads and things that glow in the dark.  It wasn't until a couple of years ago when he was cleaning out his room that I realized Darton only liked frogs and toads and things that glow in the dark--I was the one who loved them.  I search for toads in the garden and love feeling their bumpy skin as I cradle them gently in my hands.  I am mesmerized by the way tadpoles changed into frogs.  And for some reason, I am fascinated and comforted by things that glow in the night after the lights are turned off.  Somehow, without realizing it, I projected my own interest and affection for amphibians and phosphorescence onto my son.  He was a science and nature guy, so that was part of it.  He played with the frogs, experimented with the glow-in-the-dark toys and enjoyed the stories, but for him, they were just a casual interest, never a passion.  So all of this has me wondering how often we parents do this--mistakenly assume our kids love something just because we do?  We inevitably leave our fingerprints all over our kids as they are growing up, and we can't help but share our interests and passions with them.  But as I've been reminded so many times over the years, our kids are very much their own people, not little replicas of us.  And that's just how it should be.  Now what am I going to do with all these frogs?

A Visit from Grandma

When the kids were growing up, my mom often came and stayed with us for a few days.  We all looked forward to visits from Grandma.  The kids loved having her visit because she raced Matchbox cars down the ironing board, played catch, did art projects, took walks, played board games, and read stories.   I liked hearing the news from home, having someone to share a pot of coffee with,  and smelling the familiar scent of her dusting powder after she had a bath.  But most of all, I liked the unhurried, peaceful time she spent with my kids.  I knew when they were with her, she was keeping them safe, teaching them things, playing with them, listening to them, and loving them.  I never had to worry about them when they were in her care, and this gave me a much-needed breather during those days of heavy-duty parenting.  As she and the kids got older, the visits became less frequent.  She doesn't drive much anymore and hasn't been here for quite awhile.  But she's coming tonight.  So today I'm cooking and cleaning.  While she's here, we'll drink coffee and work the crossword puzzle.  I'll hear the news from home.  We'll visit Ben's new apartment and meet Em for lunch at the conference center where she lifeguards.   We'll play games and take walks. And when she goes back home, we'll all feel listened to and loved, and I hope she will, too.

Food for Thought

I'm in the midst of reading The Feast Nearby by Robin Mather.  The book as a whole has me thinking a lot about taking better advantage of local food sources.  But there was a chapter early in the book that made me think about more than food.  The chapter focuses on the all-too-brief season of asparagus and ends with these lines: "Learning to appreciate a fleeting pleasure for itself is part of life, I guess.  I am working on cultivating my delight in a season's riches without longing for them when they have passed.  Like the seasons of my life, they will march along, whether I am ready for their changing or not."  I loved these words--not just for how they apply to tender spring asparagus, plump summer sweet corn, and crunchy fall apples, which I admit I sometimes long for out of season, but even more for how they help give me perspective on the seasons of parenting.  It's easy to fall into longing for the days of babies and toddlers or really any of the days when all the kids were still at home.  Those were seasons of great bounty, and I loved them.  But ready or not, those fleeting days are gone, and I need to recognize that this current season of life has many riches to offer, too.  Good book, good advice.

Have Fun and Be Careful

We live in close proximity to our neighbors, just a few feet between our houses, so we hear their coming and going and they hear ours.  Early this morning, I awoke to the sounds of cars being rearranged, doors and trunks being opened and closed, the crunch of footsteps on gravel driveways, and muffled voices.  Then out of the blend of sounds, I heard our neighbor's forty-year-old son call out, "Bye, Mom" and heard her answer, "Have fun and be careful." I'm guessing the son and his dad were off to a weekend antique car show, and Shirley (wife and mom) was staying home.  Just before the cars pulled away from the curb, I heard Bob (husband and father) call out, "I'll call you when we get there, Shirl."  Bob and Shirley have six children and a bunch of grandchildren and great-grandchildren, so as I was lying in bed wondering if I could fall back asleep, I started thinking about how many times Shirley has probably said those very same words over the years.   It's the same thing I say to my kids, the same thing my parents said to me, the same thing parents everywhere say to their kids.  It's a hope, a wish, a blessing, a prayer.  And we feel as though we can't let them go without saying it, as if saying it will make it so.  It's what we all want for our kids each time they head out on an adventure and we stay behind smiling bravely and waving good-bye.  Have fun and be careful.

Running in the Dark

When my daughter was in high school, she ran cross-country.  During the most intense part of their season, she used to do two-a-day practices, one after school with the team and the other in the early mornings before school.  The problem with the early morning practices was that it was still dark when she went out to run.  Now I wish I could say I laced up my own sneakers and ran with her, but I'm more of a walker than a runner--I could never have kept up with her.  So instead, I trailed her in the car.  She usually took the same route on those early morning runs, so I'd give her a short head start, then I'd follow along behind her with my headlights beaming a path for her.  If I started holding up traffic, I'd pull ahead and watch for her to come running along, ponytail swinging.  She's a college basketball player now, and along with ball-handling, shooting drills, weight-lifting, and rope-jumping, her summer training includes running.  She tries to get some of her workout done before she goes to work in the morning, then does the rest in the evening.  A couple of nights ago, she didn't have a chance to run until about 9:30, and as she was getting ready to go, we realized it was already dark.  So she took her old early-morning route, and I trailed her in the car, just like the old days.  Maybe it's the English teacher in me, but driving alongside my running daughter--offering light and company and protection--seems like an apt metaphor for the kind of parent I want to be throughout my kids' lives.  I can't do her running for her or even with her, but when she's running in the dark, sometimes I can make things a little bit safer and easier.

Leaves of Three, Let Them Be

My mom's passion for wildflowers often led her into poison ivy.  I remember seeing dots of creamy pink Calamine lotion all over her blistered skin in the summer.  As a kid, I never had more than a spot of two of poison ivy rash, so while I was aware of the dangers of poison ivy, I wasn't really afraid of it.  That all changed soon after we bought our first little house. Lining the brick driveway was a bed of English ivy.  It was overgrown and filled with dead leaves and weeds, so one summer day I decided to tidy it up, without noticing there was poison ivy hiding in amongst the common ivy.  I ended up with a rash I'll never forget.  My forearms felt like they were on fire. After many miserable days and sleepless nights, I finally saw a doctor who prescribed prednisone to clear it up.  After that painful experience, my casual respect for poison ivy turned to poison ivy phobia. The problem was, even though my mom had pointed it out to me several times, I never felt a hundred percent sure of how to identify it--I knew it had three leaves, of course, which I thought were kind of teardrop-shaped with smooth edges, and Mom had told me the leaves are often kind of shiny from the oil.  But just to be on the safe side, I avoided  just about every plant with three leaves.  This worked pretty well until two years ago when the plant in the picture was just a little, barely noticeable vine in amongst the bushes at a house near ours.  I don't know if I ever would have known it was there or what it was if our dog hadn't sniffed his way into it then brought the oil home to me on his fur.  A couple of days later, I was covered in a poison ivy rash--from my face to my legs.  I tried oatmeal baths, Caladryl, Benadryl, Ivarest, and Zanfel, but eventually had to call the doctor's office for another corticosteroid prescription.  So here are some things I've learned about poison ivy: 1) It's tricky--it hides in other plants; it looks different in each season; sometimes its leaves are notched, other times they are not; new leaves are shiny, old leaves are dull; 2) Even if you stay away from poison ivy, the urushiol oil can come to you--on your pet's fur or your kids' shoes; 3) The rash starts small; at first you have one little itchy spot you hope is just a mosquito bite, but before you know it, you're covered in blisters; 4) Not everyone is allergic to poison ivy, but you don't know until you've touched it; 5) The plant itself is harder to get rid of than the rash.  Experience has taught me I'm vulnerable to poison ivy, so I'm always on the lookout for it.  But it makes me wonder, despite the warnings we get from our parents and pass on to our children, what other dangers do we blunder into because we don't recognize them at first?  What other destructive things start out small but become hard, if not impossible, to get rid of once they've taken root?  What other things in life are better left untouched?
 

Queen Anne's Lace

Queen Anne's Lace has a fragrance as delicate as its wispy flowers.  Yet it grows just as well in rocky, roadside ditches as it does in peaceful, sunny meadows.  When we were kids, my mom used to put freshly-cut Queen Anne's Lace in tall Tupperware cups, each with a different shade of food coloring mixed with a bit of water.  Before long, we had lacy flowers in pastel shades of blue, green, yellow, and pink.  When my kids were little, I did the same thing, wanting to pass along to them something I'd learned from my mom.  Every year when I see Queen Anne's Lace blooming, I think of Mom and how she has thrived and survived in all the places she's been planted--that's another thing I hope I've learned from her that I can pass along to my kids.

Smoothie Days

A good friend of Steve's gave us an Oster blender as a wedding gift.  We used it for many things over the years, including to puree hot broccoli soup, the steam from which blew the top off the blender, and we ended up with hot broccoli soup all over the kitchen, and I learned a messy but unforgettable lesson about blending hot foods.  Somewhere along the way, the first blender gave out and we replaced it with a second Oster blender.  The new blender got a lot of use at first, but then I got a food processor and started using it for most of my blending needs.  The good old blender spent most of its time in the cupboard, only making an appearance for the occasional milkshake.  But then my middle child fell in love with fruit smoothies.  They were expensive to buy, so I bought him the Klutz Smoothies book as a birthday gift one year, and all of a sudden, the blender was back in demand.  The secret of the smoothie, according to the Klutz book, was frozen bananas.  So for years, we had little containers of frozen banana slices in our freezer (until we discovered fresh bananas work just fine as long as the other fruit you use is frozen) and the blender was whirling up a lot of smoothies.  We tried several of the Klutz recipes over the years but eventually adapted and perfected our own version, which we like better than the ones we buy at restaurants.  My smoothie-loving son is off on his own now, still blending fruit and juice with his Magic Bullet, but my daughter has become a smoothie lover, too.  So during the summer months, the humble old Oster blender shares counter space with the snazzy new food processor and gets an almost daily workout turning frozen strawberries, frozen peaches, frozen blueberries, bananas, and orange juice into thick fruit smoothies.   I know that a couple of years from now when my daughter is off on her own, every time I see that good old Oster blender sitting patiently in the cupboard, it'll make me miss my kids and the smoothie days.  I might even get a little teary-eyed, or maybe I'll just pull it out and blend up my own smoothie!

Home for the Weekend

Even though I will always miss the days our little family all lived under the same roof, I have begun to notice a few little silver linings to the empty nest cloud, and one of  them is that whenever one of the kids comes home for a visit, it feels like a holiday, even if it's just a plain old weekend in July.  You scurry around and get your work done, so you can relax and enjoy the visit.  You plan meals the visiting child especially likes.  You enjoy grocery shopping because it's fun to buy his favorite snacks again.  With a light heart, you change sheets, put out towels, and bake cookies.  When it gets close to his arrival time, you can't stop peeking out the window to see if he's pulling in the driveway.  The weekend passes in a blur of meals, games, laundry, and laughter.  In true holiday fashion, you eat too much and sleep too little. But then, all of a sudden, it's Sunday night.  He gathers up his stuff while you pack up leftovers to send back with him.  You walk him out to his car, slip him some money for gas and tolls, and remind him to drive carefully.  Then you wave until he's out of sight.  You go back in the house, missing him already and knowing you're going to have to get used to having him gone all over again.  You curl up with a good book and wait for the text telling you he made it home safe and sound.  When it comes, you count your many blessings and head for bed.  You fall asleep replaying the weekend in your head.  When you wake up Monday morning, the house is quiet, the holiday over.  You step back into everyday life, feeling both happy and sad, full and empty.  There's much work to be done, so you plunge in, but all day long in the back of your busy mind, you're daydreaming about the next visit.

Game, Set, Match

When I was growing up, we had one of the best youth group leaders of all time. Summer months with Alice were filled with bike hikes, camp-outs, swimming, and tennis.  Alice could really play, and thanks to her, I learned to play, too, which turned out to be a very good thing because my husband Steve comes from a tennis-playing family.  Steve's dad was an avid tennis player.  They had a tennis court in their backyard, and all the Wendell boys were on the high school tennis team (which their dad helped start).  I visited their house once during Wimbledon, and they actually had Breakfast at Wimbledon--bacon, eggs, melon, strawberries--the whole deal!  When we were first married, Steve and I played tennis together, but it ended up being kind of frustrating--I wasn't much competition for him, and no matter how well I played, he could always turn his game up another notch.  When we moved to New Hampshire, we met another young married couple who quickly became good friends and tennis opponents.  Playing doubles with Steve instead of singles against him was much better!  Then we had kids, and we didn't play much tennis for a long time except when Steve's family got together.  Our kids grew up riding scooters, shooting baskets, and playing tennis on Grandpa and Grandma's tennis court.  The boys took tennis lessons a couple of summers, and  Steve and I occasionally played doubles with the boys, while Em (the youngest) agreed to be the ball girl on her scooter.  Then the family home was sold, and the kids were busy with high school sports and activities, and it was several years before we all started playing together again.  Now we mix and match teams depending on who is home.  The team Steve is on usually wins, but the kids have gotten better and better, so the games are usually pretty competitive.  Although we play hard, it's not really about winning and losing for Steve and me--it's about spending with our kids and making memories.  The inside jokes and famous shots (both good and bad) have become part of our family story, and I feel sure that game Steve's dad handed down to his kids and grandkids will be passed along to another generation of Wendells.  In tennis a score of zero is called "love," and I've always wondered why.  Well, this week, in honor of Wimbledon and this blog entry, I looked it up.  There are several explanations, but the one I like best says it comes from a 17th century expression meaning "playing for love." Yep, that sounds about right.

Happy 4th!

The thing I remember most about the 4th of July from when I was a kid is driving somewhere to see fireworks, parking along the side of the road, watching from the hood of the car, and then leaving before the finale so we wouldn't get stuck in traffic.  This was not a holiday tradition I wanted to pass along to my own kids.  So early on we established a 4th of July tradition we rarely break if we're in town.  First, we picnic with friends--the same good friends every year.  Then along toward dusk, we caravan down to Memorial Park on the Lake Erie shore in Dunkirk, New York.  It's the kind of thing my dad would have hated--you have to park several blocks away and walk the rest of the way; it's crowded, it's loud, the air is sticky with the smell of cotton candy, funnel cakes, and kettle corn; when you finally find a place to spread out your blanket, you're inevitably behind a tree; and when it's over, there's all kinds of traffic and it takes forever to get home.  But we return year after year--it's tradition!  When the kids were young, we brought a stroller or the wagon, a cooler with juice boxes and snacks (to avoid the high prices and long lines at the street vendors), and a damp washcloth in a plastic bag to wipe faces and hands sticky with the cotton candy they cajoled us into buying anyway.  We travel more lightly these days--just a blanket to sit on.  We've learned to go later--often arriving just before the first few booms.  We've accepted the fact that we'll always be crammed into a crowded spot behind a tree.  And sometimes we're missing one or more of the kids.  But as long as some of our kids are home on the 4th of July, we'll keep going.  And we'll never leave before the finale!

Rock Collecting

I started collecting rocks when I was about six years old.  I collected sandstone rocks you could write with, pinkish feldspar rocks, salt-and-pepper pieces of granite, and smooth white lucky stones, but my favorites were the sparkly ones I sometimes found on the path to school.  I don't know what kind of rocks they were--to me they seemed like diamonds.  They were the stars of my rock collection.  I kept all my rocks in an old metal Crisco can.  I used to spend hours looking at them and arranging them.  Then somewhere along the way, they disappeared.  I don't know if happened on our move from Indiana to Pennsylvania, or if they survived the move but fell victim to one of my mom's garage-cleaning frenzies.  All I know is they are gone.  But my fondness for rocks remains.  I like the craggy layers of slate and any good skipping stone, but these days my favorites are the smooth, round stones that fit perfectly in my hand. I like the cool solid feeling of them and the way time and life have smoothed away their sharp edges--something I hope is happening to me, too.