December Blues

1986

Ever since I became a mom, December has been a challenging month for me. Maybe not so much in those early days when the kids were very young and our world was very small. But once Ben started school and our little world started to expand, December ramped up with everything that makes the holiday season the holiday season: piano open classes, chorus and band concerts, church plays, friend parties, family visits, present buying, and cookie baking. Added to all of that, for me, was always end-of-the-semester paper reading and grading. There were some years that were extra tough: the year we discovered our middle son’s Christmas tree allergy when he broke out in hives and spent the holidays in an oatmeal bath, the year our furnace broke and the kids were sick, the year my dad died. As the kids grew older and headed off to college, holiday piano classes and high school concerts disappeared from our schedules, but we still drove to college events and games and geared up for having the kids home not just for Christmas but for winter break, so those Decembers were still bubbling with activity and challenging in new ways. 

We are in a new season now, and this is feeling like the most challenging December of all. The kids have grown up. They have their own lives, their own homes, their own friends, and the beginnings of their own traditions. I suppose the change has been occurring subtly over the past couple of years. Our middle son, who is not a teacher and doesn’t have a long break to stretch out into, hasn’t arrived until Christmas Day the past couple of years—he and his girl spend Christmas Eve and Christmas morning with her family. But our oldest lives in town, and up until last year, our youngest, who went from college to grad school to her first year of teaching, still spent a good bit of her Christmas break at home with us, so things felt a lot like they always had. But this year our girl is married. She and her husband are trying to juggle visits with both families along with her husband-the-coach’s basketball practice and game schedule. As a result, they’ll be home for about thirty-six hours this year. Our middle son and his girl will be here even less time over Christmas (but will be back for New Year’s). And I’m struggling in my attempt to adjust to it all. 

Although we got the tree the day after Thanksgiving (with the kids), and I decorated it and the house over the next few days, and although along with grading papers, I’ve been busily planning meals, buying groceries, wrapping presents, and baking cookies, I haven’t been feeling all that merry this year. Oh, I’ve listened to Christmas music and even watched a couple of Christmas movies, but my eyes and heart have really only been focused on the little window of time that all the kids will be here—I’ve just been waiting. I know, I know, the Christmas season, Advent, has always been about waiting, watching, anticipating, hoping. And I love that—the way the world prepares and almost holds its breath as it approaches Christmas Eve. But what I’ve been doing is different. I’ve been holding back, saving everything (the candles, the cookies, the celebrating) until the kids get here, and I've been fretting about how short the time together will be. I know why: from December '86, when we put infant Ben in his Christmas stocking, until December '16, the first time in thirty years that I’m not going to be filling Christmas stockings, December has been all about them, the kids. But what I’m slowly realizing is that now, somehow, it has to start being about us, my husband and me. We have to forge new traditions for the two of us, find new ways of celebrating the season. To aim all of our Christmas energy on the few hours the kids will be home isn’t fair to them or to us. The time they are home will always be my favorite part, but I need to learn to spread Christmas out in my mind and heart. I need to stop waiting and start enjoying December. I need to go ahead and light the candles, eat the cookies,  and drink the Christmas tea. Then Christmas with the kids can just be whatever it is in any given year, a week-long party or a few precious hours together. It doesn’t need to carry all the weight of my hopes and dreams and expectations. It can just be merry.

2015

Let It Snow

I've always liked winter and snow. The crisp, cold air makes me feel alive. I like the way a fresh snowfall transforms the world. I like the potential for snow days. I love walking in the snow. I don't even mind shoveling (most of the time). Late last night it was snowing and blowing, and when I was turning off the electric candles in the windows, I paused for a minute to watch. Suddenly, I was back in time, standing in my parents' living room on Neshannock Avenue in New Wilmington. I was peering out the window, watching a shadowy figure make his way through the blowing and drifting snow as he walked up the hill toward the only stoplight in town. I watched until he turned left onto Market Street and disappeared from view. The shadowy figure was Steve, heading back to Hillside dormitory through the deserted, snowy streets. We'd only been dating a couple of months, but I was head over heels in love. As I watched him go, I was thinking of the lyrics to a familiar song I'd heard earlier in the day, probably from a scratchy old record on Mom and Dad's cabinet stereo: "When we finally kiss good night, how I'll hate going out in the storm, but if you really hold me tight, all the way home I'll be warm." I felt shivery and happy inside, and I don't remember for sure, but I probably fell asleep that night dreaming about that boy and wondering how it was all going to turn out. I think of that night every time I hear "Let It Snow," and now, thirty-six years later, I know how it all turned out: I'm still head over heels in love with that boy, and I still love snow.

Samsung Dead at Age Eleven

One of the oldest working cell phones in western New York has died. The small Samsung SCH-a670 flip phone was placed into service on June 4, 2005 and has been with the same family ever since. As the first cell phone of a fifteen-year-old boy, the Samsung's early life was active with calls, text messages, pix messages, and games. Two years later, when the college-bound boy upgraded to a larger, more modern LG enV, the Samsung took an early retirement and lived quietly in a secluded area of the home. After a period of rest and relaxation, the now mature Samsung was pressed back into service as the phone of the senior-most family member, who never asked more of the phone that it could offer. He didn't expect it to take great pictures or connect to the internet; he wasn't interested in tweeting or snapping, so the now-outdated flip phone suited him well. For its part, the Samsung eventually got used to being tucked into the pocket of the old schoolteacher's bag rather than being shoved into the pocket of an active teenager. It got used to the silence. It accepted the fact that it would be turned off much of the time. And when the owner needed to make an occasional phone call or receive an even-more-occasional text message, the trusty Samsung could be counted on to respond cheerfully and reliably. Alas, it was in the aforementioned schoolbag that the Samsung met its end. No one noticed the loose cap on the lemonade bottle in the teacher's lunch bag, and it was hours before the Samsung was discovered in a pool of sticky liquid. All efforts were made to save the life of this faithful device, but the damage was too great. Text messages of condolence may be sent to the owner via the Samsung's successor, a snazzy new LG  VX8360. (Just don't expect a reply, as the heartbroken owner has neither the will nor the know-how to text back.)

Papers, Papers, Papers

Many years ago, a long-time English professor and colleague of mine said something I've never forgotten. I was still teaching part time then but had three courses instead of my usual two, and they were all writing courses. I'd been uneasy about taking on the third course--my kids were still young--I feared the extra course would upset the delicate balance that existed between work life and home life. But there was also the delicate balance of bills and income to consider, and I didn't think I could turn down the extra money. We were about a month or so into the semester, and I was feeling optimistic about my ability to handle three courses and three kids. So when my more-experienced colleague asked how it was going, my answer must have reflected my naive optimism because he nodded and said, "Yeah, it's the best job in the world for about five weeks, then it turns on you." He was right. It happens every single semester, and I fall for it every time. In the beginning, your students are bright-eyed and eager; you're reading and teaching material you love; and you're full of energy and enthusiasm for this great career you've chosen (or stumbled into, in my case). You think to yourself, This isn't so bad, I can handle this. Then as the semester wears on, there are more and more papers to read and respond to, more and more department and committee meetings to attend, and more and more conferences to hold with students who are feeling just as anxious and overwhelmed as you are. Soon you're working all the time: early in the morning, late at night, and all weekend long. You never go anywhere without a set of papers: you grade in the car, in the bleachers, in the waiting room; if you're not working on papers, you're thinking about working on papers and calculating how many more you have to do. There's no let up--you feel like you're drowning. Then just in the nick of time, the semester ends, and you wash up on the shore, exhausted and gasping for breath. Slowly, you pick yourself up, submit your final grades, and start getting ready to do it all over again.

We are well past the five-week mark in the current semester, and I'm adrift in a sea of papers. So if you don't hear from me for a while, don't worry--I'm swimming hard for the shore!

Weekend Alone

What I Did On a Rare Weekend Home Alone:

1. Took care of Zeke while Ben was gone
2. Made food Steve and Ben don't like:
• Avocado Tuna Boats 
• Mediterranean Sweet Potatoes with Roasted Garbanzo Beans 
• Avocado Toast
3. Took Zeke to Lake Erie State Park to watch the sunset (me) and to sniff wildly (Zeke) 
4. Made a baby pumpkin pie and homemade whipped cream 
5. Kept checking the FHS Drama Club Broadway Trip itinerary to see what Ben and Steve (and the rest of the crew) were doing 
6. Read in bed late at night (with the light one - not on my Kindle)
7. Took Zeke to the farmers' market in the rain to get Macoun apples (because Macoun apples are worth walking in the rain with a rambunctious dog to get)
8. Made pumpkin spice French toast 
9. Sent a lot more snaps than usual
10. Made a homemade pumpkin spice latte with homemade pumpkin spice syrup (it's amazing how far one can of pumpkin goes!)
11. Watched Project Runway on DVR (and Pitch and Code Black and . . . )
12. Made a sample bat silhouette craft for my upcoming visit to Ben's class
13. Talked to Steve and Darton and texted with Em and Ben
14. Stayed up for ALL of Saturday Night Live (Thanks to host Lin-Manuel Miranda!)
15. Read in bed for an hour after I woke up this morning
16. Did schoolwork, schoolwork, schoolwork
17. Watched the Bills WIN - Go Bills!
18. Walked Zeke, walked Zeke, walked Zeke
19. Braced myself for the presidential debate
20. Joined Zeke in waiting and watching for our boys to come home

First Date

On October 3, 1980, a curly-haired college boy, dressed in Levis and a denim jacket, showed up at 135 E. Neshannock Street to take me on a first date. We went to see Somewhere in Time, starring Christopher Reeve. We were both poor college students, and I remember wondering if I should offer to pay for my own ticket, but he took care of it. I can't remember if we got anything to eat afterwards. But what I do remember is pulling into the graveled area at the back of my parents' deep backyard and sitting in his car, a blue and white Pontiac he'd inherited from his parents, and talking. We talked, and talked, and talked. About our families, our childhoods, our hopes and dreams. Although I didn't know that first night that he was the one, the boy I was going to marry; I did know that I felt safe and at home with him in a way an introvert like me rarely feels with people. We dated the rest of that school year, broke up in May, got back together the following October, and by November had decided to get married. So here we are thirty-six years later: he still buys my movie tickets, we still talk and talk and talk, and I still feel safe and at home when I'm with him. Here's to first dates, to October evenings, and most of all, to that boy!

Our Third Son

Photo by Tim Nichols

Do you remember the book Chester's Way by Kevin Henkes? It's about a little mouse named Chester who had his own way of doing things. Chester's best friend Wilson liked all the same things. "Chester and Wilson. Wilson and Chester. That's the way it was." The book goes on to describe all the fun things Chester and Wilson did together, but then one day Lilly moves into the neighborhood, and Lilly has her own way of doing things. Chester and Wilson aren't too sure about Lilly at first. But after she saves them from some bullies, Chester and Wilson realize they can learn a few things from Lilly and her way of doing things. They also see that life is more fun with Lilly, and soon the three of them are inseparable. "Chester and Wilson and Lilly. Lilly and Wilson and Chester. That's the way it was." Until the very end of the book when "Victor moves into the neighborhood . . . "

That story reminds me of our story. It started with Ben, who had his own way of doing things. When Darton came along, he fit right in. Ben and Darton, Darton and Ben. That's the way it was. And life was good. Then Emily arrived on the scene. From the beginning, Emily had her own way of doing things. As time passed, the boys realized they could learn a thing or two from their baby sister, and they also saw that life was more fun with three. Ben, Darton, and Emily. Emily, Darton, and Ben. That's the way it was. For years. And years. I referred to them as B, D, E, and rattled off "two sons and a daughter" whenever anyone asked about my kids.

And then Tucker showed up. At first he was Darton's teammate and friend. But then, at cross-country camp, he got to know Emily, and before long Tucker started spending more and more time on Eagle Street. It turned out he had his own way of doing things. For starters, he likes mild chicken wings and doesn't eat broccoli. But we soon discovered that Tucker made family dinners, game nights, tennis matches, road trips, and holidays more fun, and we also realized we could learn a thing or two from the new guy. When our fifteen-year-old dog was dying, Tucker was the one who gently said, "You've gotta let him go." When our front door was sticking and wouldn't open the whole way, Tucker said, "I can fix that," and he did. And most important, he loves our girl and knows how to make her happy. So now we have three sons and a daughter, and we couldn't be happier about it. Ben, Darton, Emily and Tucker. Tucker, Emily, Darton and Ben. That's the way it is. (Until Emma moves into the neighborhood . . . but that's a story for a future entry!)

Photo by Nicole Mason

Emily Krauza?

"A son is a son until he takes a wife, but a daughter's a daughter all of her life."

The first time I heard this saying was on an episode of That Girl when Mrs. Hollinger was bemoaning the idea of losing her beloved son Donald to That Girl, Ann Marie. I wondered then (and I wonder now) how much, if any, truth there was to it. As the mom of two boys, I'm hoping not much. But as the mom of a newly-married daughter, I'm clinging pretty hard to the second part these days. Em and Tuck had been together for nearly eight years when they got married in August, so we were pretty used to them as a couple, but I was aware, if not quite prepared, for the reality that married is different than dating. The first big adjustment came right away--the week of their honeymoon. In the months, weeks, and days leading up to the wedding, I probably talked more with Em than I had since the days she and I were home together before she started school. But when the newlyweds pulled out of our driveway on August 21st, things went from famine to feast in a hurry. Of course, that's exactly as it should be, but that doesn't mean I wasn't feeling the withdrawal. As the week progressed, I knew I had to stick to the rules I set for myself when each of the kids left for college: let them initiate the texting or calling, and even then, keep my replies short. A new school year started for me on the Monday after the wedding, so I kept pretty busy with that and with sorting through the mountain of leftover wedding china and decorations. But keeping busy isn't the same thing as being happy, and I'll admit it was kind of a tough week for Steve and me--we were missing our girl. But we got through its and contact with the honeymooners has long-since been restored: we get texts, calls, and even snapchats pretty regularly. So things have more or less returned to normal. But not exactly. Although, according to the saying, Em will be our daughter all of her life, she's no longer just our daughter, Emily Wendell; she is now Tucker's wife, Emily Krauza. And it's a lot more than just a name change (though even that is going to take some getting used to!). The landscape has been subtly rearranged, the boundaries have shifted. And I need to respect the new lines, to step back a bit. I know that from now on, when some happy thing or some sad thing or really any big thing happens, Tuck will be--and should be--Em's first call, her first listener. And although I thought I'd come to terms with this before, I need to face up to the truth that Em's old room (and Ben's and Darton's) is just that: her old room. She has a new home and a new life with Tucker that is separate from our home and our life. And not only that, she has a new extended family now too. So I need to do what I've been trying to do all along with this blog: loosen my grip on my kids and on the past, as I work through the changes and try, once again, to find my equilibrium in this ever-changing life.

Photo by Nicole Mason

Labor Day and Back-to-School Muffins

I've been away from the blog for a while, thinking maybe I'd finally adjusted to our empty nest (or fretting that I'd gone on far too long about the struggle). But I'm realizing two things: 1) I'll probably never fully adjust, and 2) this season in life (every season in life?) is just one change and one challenge after another. So I'm back, trying to come to terms with my life by writing about it.

For years I've made cranberry-apple-carrot muffins every fall when bags of fresh cranberries first appear in the produce department. I make a batch or two, then cranberries disappear from the grocery store (and I never remember to freeze any), and that's it for another year. Last fall I made a batch when the kids were home, but we didn't end up eating many of them, so I froze the leftovers and Steve and I started taking them in our lunches. When we finished the batch, we missed having them for lunches, so I made more and more until all the cranberries were gone. I tried making other kinds of muffins to take their place, but none were quite as good. Eventually, I tried substituting extra apples and carrots for the missing cranberries, and they were still good! I made batch after batch right up until the end of June. This morning, I mixed up the first batch of the new school year. Then it hit me: tomorrow is Steve's last first day of school; he's retiring at the end of the year. My mind tumbled back through the years as I thought about the way the call from Silver Creek came just in the nick of time in August of 1988--right before I accepted the back-breaking, low-paying job I'd been offered at Fulton-Montgomery Community College.  For the past twenty-nine years, the new year has begun for us not in snowy January but under the blue skies and bright sun of late August/early September. Sure, our back-to-school preparations have changed over the years. I've had to gradually (and grudgingly) adjust to the fact that back-to-school shopping means picking up a new pair of reading glasses rather than buying crayons or calculators or dorm-room bedding. And I've accepted that getting ready for lunch packing means making healthy muffins rather than stocking up on Fruit by the Foot and Fritos. But I can't quite imagine what Labor Day is going to feel like next year when it's not the-day-before-the-first-day-of-school for Steve or how I'll ever get used to not going back to school each August when my own teaching career comes to an end. For now, I guess we'll do what we've always done: take it a day at a time and figure things out as we go along. As for rest of this quiet Labor Day, I think I'll relax, eat a muffin, and get ready to wish Steve a happy last first day of school!

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