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.