A Good Job

I still miss my daughter with a slowly subsiding ache; the cats and I peer at each other in the shaded house and wonder if someone will come to rescue us from this unfamiliar situation. I tend not to follow little Blackjack when he hides in Aden's room, but I can at least step through the doorway without tears. It felt heroic to support Aden in her decision to stay at school through the long Labor Day weekend, I told her it was good to "put down roots" while inside a voice was shrieking, "come home!"

My neighbor and I exchanged notes on the subject of departing children. Bonnie said "Everyone tells you that you did a good job, and that's why they can leave successfully, but what if you didn't mean to do such a good job? Maybe I should have screwed up more along the way!"  The mix of emotions is wilder than a unicorn frappuccino. Aden is rocking her first two weeks, happy and engaged and meeting all the people. She's doing so much better than I did in my first two weeks that I am proud, amazed, and a teensy bit jealous.  I eagerly await her snapchats and stay up much later than I planned to take her calls.

My wheels are still spinning as I try to work out a job that I can do from home that will swell my pocketbook while not adding stress or fatigue to my life. I have to drive Daniel to activities most evenings when Rob's out of town, so early morning work is not ideal, work during school hours only is hard to come by, and my introverted tendencies make me reluctant to do anything with phones, customer service, marketing, or pitching myself. You can see the difficulty.  But I keep praying and hoping that the right thing will drop into my lap(top) at the right time. Have to keep the mental wheels turning productively so they don't stop or go off the rails worrying about things that are out of my control - like a college-age daughter.

College Dropoff

Wednesday was what my college roommate would call a "mad, sad, glad day."  Tara always could hit the nail on the head, and a text stream with her and my other roommates was a highlight on a day that otherwise broke my heart into pieces. Leaving Aden (and a piece of the aforementioned broken heart) in Boulder brought back memories of my own painful freshman drop-off, and my brain kept going in circles in disbelief that I was leaving my child to live someplace without me. Though we had been preparing for months, the actual move out / move in struck with the shock of a cold shower.

The excitement of a bustling, welcoming campus buoyed us through the unloading of the car, the decoration of the room, the introductions to her roommate and her roommate's family. The day was clear, the mountains loomed over all, the dorm room was unexpectedly large and clean. We walked the route between a few of Aden's classes and admired the untrodden lawns, the welcome tents, and the well-stocked bookstore (where we bought more swag).

Then lunch, then abrupt departure, with Aden reassuring me. "You got this, Mom," she said as I hid my streaming eyes behind oversized sunglasses and struggled to get words out of my clogged throat. Rob reassured me all the way home about her readiness, her happiness and the exciting new worlds at her fingertips. My agreement still didn't prepare me to pass her empty room or to stop in shock at the newly clean corner where her college supplies lived all summer.

It's a physical hurt for me, a pain somewhere in the gut that bursts out at inappropriate moments (like my son's back to school night) and induces tears and absent-mindedness. Part of me is focused on Boulder, on what Aden's doing now, and the other parts can't seem to get in gear...yet.  I have to figure this out and move forward. Snapchat and texts help, as does proximity. Stay tuned for Aden's rapid forward movement and exciting trajectory....and for my slower progress and brave face.

First Day of School

The boys started school this week - eighth and eleventh grades. I noticed the day's approach on my calendar with a slight but growing trepidation and a dawning realization that I want my kids with me so I can keep them safe. A fear-based mindset is unfamiliar to me, and yet the events of the past year have crept into my subconscious.

What makes me inhale deeply, fortify myself, and send my kids off with a cheerful farewell is the determination not to succumb to our current administration's doctrine of fear. The president and some of his supporters have deepened divides in our country, encouraged hatred and promoted fear. We must defeat negativity within ourselves, our families, and our neighborhoods, and we must vote the propaganda machine out of office next year.

I choose to believe in the good in people. When I got a text from a friend last night, asking if my older son could meet her student for lunch on her first day of school, William immediately agreed. Another of his friends immediately did the same. Our young people are good, full of potential, and blessed with visions and possibilities that we can't see. I have to send them forth into the world because they are the ones who will help us change for the better.

More In-Betweens

Camping gear has filled the living room, or what's left of it after Aden's college shopping has spilled out from the opposite wall. The air mattress sits adjacent to her wall mirror and sleeping pads roll up nicely next to her new gray-and-white-checked storage baskets. We appear to be readying ourselves either to host several new family members long-term, or to send them out into the world with an outline of the necessities.

My work space mirrors the craziness of our upside-down living room. The boys' back-to-school paperwork sits (mostly completed) next to permission trips for Daniel's third and final mission trip, Aden's move-in checklist partially obscures a list of part-time jobs that I'm considering in a desperate bid to keep busy and stop depression from descending after we move her up to Boulder. 

The part-time job search has been a dizzying process of determining what on earth I want to do, or can do, for four hours each day for an hourly several steps above minimum wage. Translating, teaching, typing, editing, etc.... how many times do I need to ask the question of what I want to do when I grow up? Plus, as every stay-at-home parent knows, I have a nearly full-time job coordinating the house, kids, and spouse. Even summer has presented itself with a dance card full of doctor's appointments, wisdom teeth removal, swim lessons, swim meets and grocery shopping. 

So we inhabit this crazy space between summer and school, Aden being here and Aden leaving, me stable, and me ????. Another liminal phase, another chance to breathe through it and try to enjoy the now. Practice makes perfect, or so I hear.

Tear-ing It Up

I'm a regular font of salt water these days, despite the fact that I swim in chlorine. Tears threaten at odd times and in public places, like at the airport when Rob and I picked William up after his mission trip to Nogales, Mexico. Parents around me were grinning jovially and waving hello to their teens while I nearly burst into tears and had to refrain from running through baggage claim to embrace my son. Like a bad movie, it played in my head as I fought to restrain myself and wait for him to saunter over before delivering my stranglehold hug. The tears did not so much glisten as pool over my lower lids, to such an extent that William noticed. "Are you almost crying, Mom?" he asked with a grin.

My family seems partially horrified and partly resigned to the fact that I weep frequently and without regard to the status of teenagers. I try to hide it, casually looking to the side of the room after a So You Think You Can Dance audition that is particularly moving, yawning and raising one hand to stretch while the other discreetly wipes away unwanted moisture.  It reminds me of the move that our high school dates used to pull in movie theaters, yawning and stretching before cautiously draping one arm over the back of our seats and shoulders (this was particularly fraught for female swimmers, whose shoulders were often broader than their dates.')  My move, like the movie date sidearm, doesn't fool anyone, but it helps me to move on into the commercial break with some dignity.

Meanwhile, I'm grasping at straws to solve the problem. Unsure if it's hormones, perimenopause, emotional strain, fatigue, or just a character flaw, I keep waiting for the tide to turn (literally and metaphorically). After the last few months, I'm beginning to doubt that change will come, and trying to resign myself to presenting a wet face to the public. The kids (and husband) will just have to adjust - and bring Kleenex.