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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Red, White, and Feeling Blue

Just when you think you might finally be over the worst of the empty nest blues, a holiday tradition falls apart and you're left feeling kind of lost and bewildered. I really have no business complaining because our youngest was just home for a week, which overlapped with a visit from my mom (and short but fun visits with my family when we met in Erie to pick Mom up and take her back). This made the past few days feel like vacation: late nights, lazy mornings, meandering conversations, board games, crossword puzzles, and tennis matches. But then the fun ended. My mom left on Thursday; Em packed up this morning for a weekend trip to Canada with her boyfriend's family and is heading back to Syracuse from there. Meanwhile, our middle child, who had talked about coming home for the 4th, decided to stay in Rochester with his girlfriend this year; and our older son, who lives in town, made plans of his own for today. Of course, all of this is an inevitable part of parenting. The kids are doing exactly what they should be doing--growing up and having lives of their own. But ever since we said goodbye to Em this morning, Steve and I have been at loose ends. We're having a hard time remembering what we used to do on the 4th before we had kids. Thank goodness for Breakfast (and lunch) at Wimbledon--watching tennis used up some of the day. But night has fallen in England, and now we have to decide what to do with ourselves for the rest of the night. It's not really that there's nothing to do; it's more that we don't really feel like doing much of anything. We don't really want to go to the local fireworks alone and can't get excited about driving somewhere new to see fireworks because as it turns out, the 4th of July isn't really about going to see fireworks, it's about going to see fireworks with your kids . . .  and your friends . . . and your friends' kids. There are some aspects of an emptying nest you expect and try to prepare yourself for, but other things--like spending the 4th of July alone--end up taking you by surprise, and suddenly you realize you don't have quite the grip you thought you had on this new stage in life. So tonight, we might just stay home, watch a movie, make a backyard fire, and if we're feeling really ambitious, put the tent up and sleep outside. And bit by bit, we'll continue to explore this new (old?) territory, so that the next time we find ourselves alone on a holiday we'll understand the lay of the land better and won't feel quite so lost.

Getting Old

Maybe it was the back-to-back visits we had with my husband's mom and my mom this past summer. Or perhaps it was the fifty cents we saved when we went to a movie two days before my husband's 55th birthday, and the woman at the ticket desk gave him an early birthday present: the senior citizen's discount. Or maybe it's just the way I hobble around when I first get up after sitting for a while. Whatever the reason, lately I've been pondering what it's like to be old and how to get there gracefully. I've always been the kind of person who thinks about and tries to imagine what the next stage in life will be like and how I will fit into it. I used to daydream about going to college, getting married, and having kids. I paid attention to the lives of people a little farther down the path than I was and looked for tips on what I should do, how I should act, and what I should remember. So these days I've been watching Steve's mom and my mom for clues about the stage in life that my husband and I are just beginning to teeter on the edge of. I've watched them cope with losing their husbands and living alone. I've seen them give up riding their bikes, taking walks when the sidewalks are snowy, and having holiday celebrations in their homes. I've wondered what it must feel like, after all those years of feeding your family and hosting dinner parties, to lose your ability (but not your desire) to make a meal for company or even for yourself. When Steve's mom was eighty-nine, she decided to move into an assisted living facility in Williamsburg. She gave up her car, her life in Fredonia, and much of her independence for the security and peace of mind that come with knowing she has built-in help if she needs it. At eighty-two, my mom still drives (around town) and still lives in her own home. Although she may change her mind in the future, she recently told a friend she has no plans to move until she goes to heaven. Yet despite these differences in our moms'  living situations, the borders of each of their lives have shrunk. For many years, your life expands. You learn to crawl, then walk, then drive; you move from your playpen to your yard to your neighborhood, and finally out into the great big world. Then somewhere along the way, almost imperceptibly at first, life starts to get smaller again. At first it's kind of a relief not to have somewhere to be or something to do every single minute; you're glad to ease up on the accelerator a bit; you welcome the little pockets of rest that come your way. But then, before you know it, you have hardly anywhere to go, almost nothing to do, and way too much time on your hands. And you start to feel lonely and . . . old. There's not really much you can do about it except try to make the best of your little world, and both of our moms have done that. They stay involved in the lives of their children and grandchildren (and great-grandchildren), they spend time with friends, they enjoy simple pleasures, they keep learning, and they keep living. And whether they realize it or not, they're still doing what good parents have always done: smoothing the path and shining a light so their children can find their way.

The Morning After

I had a piece of whole wheat toast this morning with a skim coat of peanut butter--my standard breakfast. But yesterday about this time, I was making pumpkin french toast and gingerbread chai lattes for a last salute to the holidays before my daughter headed back to Syracuse. She had been home for two and a half weeks--almost long enough to fool me into believing she was living here again. Her time at home included big events like Christmas Day and New Year's Eve, but just as important, if not more so, were all the little events: watching movies, playing games, lingering at the dinner table, leaving a light on when we go to bed, and seeing her bedroom door closed when we get up in the morning. Those are the things I think about on the morning after when the house is feeling big and empty again. There's no lack of things to keep me busy: I am behind on schoolwork, I need to put away the last of the Christmas decorations, there's laundry to do, snow to shovel, errands to run. But I having trouble attacking my to-do list. The sky is blue, the sun is shining, but I feel dark and heavy inside. Up until this morning, I have been busily pushing away a little nagging thought that this may well have been the last Christmas break that one of my kids was home for the holidays. My oldest  child lives in town, and we see him often, but the only night he slept here over the break was Christmas Eve. My middle child didn't make it home until the day after Christmas this year and was only here for a wonderful but all-too-brief weekend. In between the times my kids are here, I think I'm getting used to the new normal. But then when one or two or, best of all, all three of them are home, I realize anew how much I've been missing them and the days when all five of us were living here. I know those days are gone, and I'm so very lucky I see my kids as often as I do. But it's hard to go back to plain old toast after feasting on pumpkin spice and gingerbread!

Another Goodbye

After spending a couple of weeks at home between the end of summer session and the beginning of the fall semester, my youngest child just pulled away from the curb and is headed back to Syracuse. She's been home off and on since May, but now she's leaving for the long haul. I thought saying goodbye to my kids would get easier. I thought after so much practice, I'd get better at it or I'd develop a tolerance for it.  But as soon as I came back inside after waving goodbye, I felt the familiar ache. The house suddenly seemed big and quiet and empty. And although we were together, my husband and I both felt lost and sad and lonely. It's not just because she's the youngest and will be the farthest away. The same thing happens when my middle child and his sweet girl drive off after spending a weekend with us. I even feel little echoes of it when my oldest and his pup leave the house after having dinner here on an ordinary weeknight. Maybe the reason you never get good at saying goodbye to your children is because you never stop missing them. You never stop wanting to hear their familiar voices and see their sweet faces. And maybe I will just have to live with that.

“There is something about poems that is like loving children: they keep returning home and singing to you all your life."  --Felice Holman

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!