Goodbye, Old Friend

In the spring of 1999, we drove to Florida with our three kids, then 12, 9, and 6, sitting shoulder to shoulder in the narrow backseat of our Subaru wagon. That trip convinced us that as much as we didn't want to admit it, it was time to start thinking about a minivan. We held on for another two years, but finally in the summer of 2001, we made the leap and bought a Toyota Sienna.  We opted for quad seats, thinking it would lead to more peaceful car trips with the three kids. The boys immediately claimed the middle row captain chairs and relegated young Em to the third row. Over the years, however, that cozy seat in the way back became the coveted spot on long trips. We quickly realized why minivans were so popular--there was SO MUCH ROOM inside--for kids and dogs, for band instruments and sports equipment, for friends and grandparents. Then as our kids headed off to college, we hauled the backseats out and had space for a dorm-roomful of belongings. Later still when our kids started moving into apartments, we discovered that if we took out the middle seats, too, the good old minivan could hold mattresses, dressers, and couches. For that reason alone, we were hoping the van would last one more year so we could use it to move Em home from Syracuse next summer. But as its inspection drew near, the brake light and the ABS light joined the "check engine" symbol in lighting up the dashboard; the air conditioning hadn't been working all summer, and there was an ominous clunking noise coming from underneath. So after much debate, we decided it was time to part ways with our minivan. I was surprised at how sad I felt about trading it in--it has cost us a lot of money over the past few years with its seemingly insatiable appetite for oxygen sensors and exhaust pipes; it was big and clunky and no one ever drove it if the other car was available--but still, it had served us well. I admit I have a tendency to personify inanimate objects, but the van definitely looked sad and embarrassed as our car salesman made disparaging comments as he discussed the van's trade-in value. Now when pressed, I can acknowledge that cars don't really have feelings, but I still couldn't quite stop feeling bad about letting the minivan go even though we had a snazzy little Subaru parked in its spot in the driveway. As I tossed and turned during that night, I finally figured out that what was really making me sad: the realization that Steve and I don't really need a minivan anymore. Our kids are grown up; they have their own cars and their own lives. And even though we'll still take trips together from time to time in the years ahead, the five of us won't be sitting in our spots in the good old van, playing the jellybean game, eating pretzel rods and Mint Milanos to pass the time, and arguing over where and when to stop for lunch. What I was actually struggling with say goodbye to the days of the five of us hitting the road together in our minivan. (But I am still feeling a little worried about how sad the old van must be as it sits in an unfamiliar car lot in Jamestown waiting to be sent to auction.)

Zeke!

For almost all of our married life Steve and I have had a dog: first, Evan; then, Pippin. Three years ago, when we had to put fifteen-year-old Pippin to sleep, we decided we were done with dogs. Despite pressure from our kids and our own longings, we stood by our decision. This past Monday, on the three-year anniversary of Pippin's death, a wonderful thing happened: our son Ben adopted a six-month-old puppy from the local humane society. His name is Zeke, and Steve and I are completely in love with him. The night Ben brought him home, we had a "Welcome, Zeke!" pizza party at Ben's apartment. At the end of the evening, I dropped Steve off at home, then ran to the store to pick up some extra puppy food and a toy or two, since Ben had gone straight to the humane society after school. I got the food and the toys, but I also found myself buying puppy biscuits, pet wipes, dog shampoo, a canine dental kit, and a new dog dish. Yesterday I got him a doggie water bottle (he was hot and thirsty at the tennis court the night before) and a Kong toy (two people had recommended them). Today I got him more puppy biscuits, some toys, and another new dish (for when he's at our house). I go over every day to walk Zeke while Ben's at school, and the two of them have been coming over for dinner all week. Even this much Zeke is not enough. The first night Zeke was here, Steve said, "This just makes me so happy." I completely agree, and I'm completely surprised at besotted with Zeke I am. I loved our own dogs, of course, but I don't always love other people's dogs. So I wasn't quite expecting to be swept off my feet by Zeke. But this is Ben's dog, and I should have known that fact alone would automatically make him near and dear to my heart. Perhaps young Zeke is giving us a little taste of what it will be like to have grandchildren someday. If that is so, I can't wait! In the meantime, I'll be busy spoiling my first grand dog!

Boxes from Home

When I was a kid, I went away to camp several summers in a row. The camp was only about an hour from home (though it seemed much farther), and I only stayed a week (though it seemed much longer). I loved nearly everything about camp, but one of my very favorite parts of being there was the mail call, and my favorite part of the mail call was the day a package arrived from home. It was usually a smallish cardboard box, carefully wrapped and neatly addressed in my mom's tidy handwriting. Inside were treats of all kinds: Cracker Jack, Lifesavers, Chiclets gum, Smarties, Chuckles gumdrops, little bags of peanuts, packages of crackers with peanut butter, and a cheery note. I loved all the fun snacks, of course, but I also liked knowing someone at home was thinking about me when I was off on my own. When my kids went away to college, I remembered what it felt like to get a box from home when you were off on a big adventure. So a couple of times a semester, I tried to send a package: Trick or Treat boxes at Halloween, all-green boxes for St. Patrick's Day, heart-shaped cookies from the town bakery for Valentine's Day, and study-hard-and-finish-strong boxes at the end of every semester. Well, my last child is in her last semester of college, and I recently mailed off the last end-of-the-semester package. Tucked in among the Stacy's Cinnamon Sugar Pita Chips, Pretzel M&M's, Goldfish crackers, Orbit gum, Essie nail polish, and Burt's Bees lip balm were wisps of memories from the last four years, as well as softly shimmering hopes and dreams and good wishes for life after college. I've loved being the mom of college kids, and even though that chapter in our lives is ending, I hope my daughter and both my boys know there will always be someone at home thinking of them when they are off living their own big adventures.

Syracuse Bound?

I haven't written in a while. I got swallowed up by the end of the fall semester and Christmas. Then we spent most of the winter shoveling and trying to keep our pipes from freezing. And as the weeks, then months went by, I started thinking maybe I was done with the blog because maybe I was finally getting used to my emptying nest. But last week I hit a bump in the road. Friday night I was sitting in the darkened high school auditorium watching act one of Bye Bye Birdie. I glanced back and saw my son, the director, standing at the back, keeping watch over the production. Steve was in the seat next to me, and my daughter, Em, was sitting nearby with her boyfriend. She'd arrived home a couple of hours earlier, and as I was fixing dinner, she checked her email and discovered she'd been accepting into the SUITR program at Syracuse University. We cheered and hugged and took big, deep sighs of relief that she'd made it into the program and now had a good option for life after graduation, then we headed off to see the musical. I think I was watching the scene where fifteen-year-old Kim McAfee starts calling her parents by their first names and her mom is wishing her daughter wasn't growing up quite so fast, when all of a sudden it hit me: if Em goes to Syracuse, she has to be on campus by June 2. This means for the first time ever, we will have no kids at home for the summer. I whispered this to Steve and saw in an instant the thought hadn't yet occurred to him either. He squeezed my hand and we turned our attention back to the show. But later that night after we got home, we tried to come to terms with how we were feeling. Were we happy for her? Absolutely. Proud? You bet. Yet were we sad for ourselves? You better believe it. Suddenly, the summer started stretching out looking long, hot, and lonely. The Syracuse shadow has loomed over me all week.  But then I started thinking about Bye Bye Birdie. One of the main characters in the show is 33-year-old Albert Peterson. Part of the plot revolves around him trying to break the news to his overbearing mother (Mae Peterson) that he is going to dissolve the family business and marry his secretary Rose Alvarez. Deep in the second act when Albert finally gets up the courage to tell his mother, once and for all, she says, "So it's come at last. At last it's come. The day I knew would come at last has come, at last. My sonny-boy doesn't need me anymore." Now there's a part of me that can definitely relate to and sympathize with Mae, but I know I don't want to be Mae. I would never want to get in the way of my kids' futures. So if Em heads off to Syracuse at the beginning of June, we will cheer her on and move her in and hug her hard. Then we will come back to our empty house and muddle through the long, hot summer as best we can, reminding ourselves that July will be easier than June and next summer will be easier than this summer. And maybe one day soon, this blog can find a new direction!

Giving Thanks

Thanksgiving: this quiet holiday that falls between spooky, candy-filled Halloween and big, bright, present-filled Christmas is known for nothing but its food and its gentle reminder to be thankful. The Thanksgivings I remember most from growing up were spent around our laminated, oval dining room table, which was dressed up for the occasion with a heavy, freshly-ironed tablecloth and my mom's good dishes. There wasn't much fanfare to Thanksgiving at our house; it was just the six of us most of the time. My mom would build a log cabin out of Lincoln Logs and surround it with little pilgrim and Indian candles for the centerpiece, and the corner of the stereo cabinet held a wicker cornucopia filled with plastic fruit; that was about it as far as decorations went. As for holiday music, my mom would sing "Over the River and Through the Woods" as she made pies and fat turkey-shaped sugar cookies the day before Thanksgiving, and when we woke up on Thursday morning, she'd be in the kitchen humming "We Gather Together" as she stuffed the turkey and pared potatoes. We would eat early, then spend the rest of the day playing games and eating leftovers.  I'd like to be able to add "and giving thanks for food, shelter, and each other" to the end of the previous sentence, but in truth, we probably spent more time arguing over who would get the last Brown 'N Serve roll and squabbling over whose turn it was in Carrom than being thankful. And even worse, instead of being grateful for all the blessings we already had, my sister and brothers and I were mostly just biding our time on Thanksgiving afternoon, waiting for my mom to put the first Christmas record on the stereo. By Thanksgiving night, we were busy circling coveted items in the Sears and Penneys Christmas catalogs as we composed our extensive wish lists. Thanksgiving would just sort of slip away as we started getting ready for the "bigger and better" holiday. Over the years, though, Thanksgiving has become so much more than a gateway to Christmas for me. Christmas might be bigger, but bigger isn't always better. I've grown to love Thanksgiving's simplicity, its understated traditions and decorations, its identity as a holiday that celebrates being grateful. I like its slower pace and its tight focus: one day, one meal, one purpose--giving thanks. It doesn't seem to matter how early stores put up their Christmas displays or how many Black Friday promotions there are, because for me Thanksgiving stands tall and strong, unaffected and unassuming. I guess, in a way, Thanksgiving still plays a part in getting me ready for Christmas, not by bowing out of the way to give me time to work on my wish list, but by steadily reminding of how much I already have.

Birthdays

"This is how it is with your children, she thought. You hold all the versions of them there ever were simultaneously in your heart." --Sue Miller

The weekend before last, all three of our kids were home. The two from out of town arrived by surprise  Friday night. They had come to help us celebrate our birthdays. The surprise visit involved a lot of planning and texting (and lying), but they pulled it off. We were completely unsuspecting and thoroughly surprised. It was the perfect present: we laughed and talked and ate and played games. And what Sue Miller's character says in the above quote was so true. As we sat around the table at the restaurant or in the dining room playing cards, I'd watch these grown-up kids of mine signing credit card slips, giving advice about grad school and teaching, and sharing plans for the end-of-student-teaching gifts, and I would also see an eight-year-old perched on a counter stool making an elaborate cardboard-paper-glitter present, a seven-year-old playing school with his brother and all the stuffed animals, and a six-year-old saving money in a little safe in the corner of his bedroom. It happens all the time--you see a twinkle in an eye, a stubborn look on a face, a familiar habit or gesture, and in that instant, the past telescopes itself and you see all the versions of themselves your children have ever been. Today at 4:33, my oldest child will turn twenty-seven years old, and for the first time, my parenting years will outnumber my non-parenting years. For me, birthdays have always been a time for looking back, for remembering each age and stage, but lately they have also become a time for looking ahead, for imagining all the versions of my kids that are yet to be.

Happy Birthday, Ben!

It's November!

It's November, and that means it's time for turtlenecks and warm socks and flannel sheets, three of my favorite things. In our family, November also means birthdays--three of them. One of the first things Steve and I discovered about each other during my freshman year at Westminster was that we shared a birthday. It was an odd coincidence that maybe helped us together at first. And it was kind of fun when we were dating, but later on it started to feel a little less fun. You know how it is when you're a kid: your birthday is your special day. There's a present on your bedside table when you wake up, you get to take cupcakes to school, there are birthday cards in the mail when you get home, your mom makes your favorite dinner, and then there are more presents and more cake. For that one day in the year, you are celebrated. Granted, some of the birthday hoopla wanes with age, but your birthday is still your own special day every year--except when you share it with your husband. You might think a double birthday would mean double the celebration, but in our case, the two kind of cancelled each other out. Think about it: Who makes the cake? Who hangs balloons and streamers? Who plans a special dinner? It was hard for the kids, too, at least when they were younger--there was no parent to help them get ready for the other parent's birthday. So our joint-birthday always ended up feeling a little more like an anniversary. Fortunately, our first child joined our November birthday club. For a while, we thought he might arrive right on our birthday, but he took his time and claimed his very own special day. So although Steve and I don't usually eat cake on our birthday, we happily share Ben's a few days later. Over the years, I've slowly gotten used to sharing my birthday. In fact, sharing a birthday, especially a November birthday, seems to suit Steve and me. November, with its grays and browns and leftover yellows, is a subdued, understated month--tucked in there between bold, golden October and merry, red-and-green December. Steve and I, with our November-ish personalities, fit right in. I'm not sure how we'll celebrate our birthday this year--something quiet and subdued no doubt--but we'll do it together as we have for more than thirty years. And these days, I wouldn't want it any other way.