The Cat Talks Back

The cat talks to me more now that all the children have flown the coop. Rex sits at the top of the tree, turns his back when I ask too many questions, then "errs" at alarming volume each time a commercial blares on TV. He's apparently picked up the conversational burden since the kids left. I don't mind the increased cat commentary, though I could do without him walking across the keyboard in protest—which he's doing right now. (The black cat watches from a distance, observing our new dynamic, unsure of his role in this two-person household.)

When Rob and I said goodbye to Daniel last Friday, none of us cried. At twenty, our youngest felt ready to move into his own place and conduct his activities—study and otherwise—away from our prying eyes and endless questions. His roommate seemed solid, the bedroom spacious with an en suite bathroom (a luxury that never existed in my college days).

Here's the thing: Rob and I have been training for this for seven years, ever since we first dropped Aden off at Sewall Hall on the CU campus. Since that first painful move out, there have been many transitions—apartments, moves back home, moves to Brooklyn, launches into new lives. The long runway gave me time to rebuild my coaching career, deepen my friendships, and figure out who I am when the house isn't full of chaos. I needed those years to prepare, honestly. Empty nesting didn't blindside us because we've been walking toward it step by step.

The real surprise of empty nesting? When I go to bed with a clean house, I wake to the same clean house. No fast food wrappers breeding in the kitchen. No shoes colonizing the hallway. No mysterious dishes migrating to the bedroom. Just Rex's toys scattered like landmines across the floor. It's akin to a miracle.

I told a friend the other day how I used to follow the kids around when they were toddlers—systematically emptying baskets of toys, then methodically re-stuffing them, then moving to the next disaster zone. A robotic loop. What a waste of time. Twenty-plus years later, we've come full circle, and now I find myself counting down to holidays when the shoes, glasses, and dishes will multiply and roost in every wrong corner of the house. When the mess returns and means they're home.

For now, Rob and I savor the quiet rooms, pristine counters, and unchanging fridge contents, with only two cats to keep us in line. But I'm already looking forward to the glorious chaos of their return.

The Pain Cave

Last Wednesday night I lay in a hotel bed next to Rob, trying to fall asleep at 8 p.m. with a cough drop clenched between my teeth, blackout curtains drawn tight, the AC whirring. My mind kept turning over the hike ahead. For the second year running, Aden and I had planned a trip to Buena Vista to tackle a 14er—last year La Plata, this year Mt. Belford and Mt. Oxford. Rob came along despite the summer cold already threatening to jump from him to me.

The alarm went off at 3:15 a.m. We grabbed our snacks and iced coffees and departed for the trailhead. Headlamps on, we started hiking at 4:20 a.m. under stars and occasional meteors—the Perseid shower was that night. The trail pitched upward immediately. Though we couldn't see the rise, our spiking heart rates gave us the measure of the incline. Focusing on one foot in front of the other, our lights catching the dew on shrubs and baby firs, we climbed for two hours through hushed pre-dawn quiet.

Moving through a forest in darkness felt like a gift—the difficulty dissolved when we couldn't see where we trod, as though effort without sight didn't count. We ditched the headlamps and pushed through a brief rain storm (mercifully without thunder or lightning), then encountered a dispersed cluster of white mountain goats. Pikas shrilled warnings in our direction as we started the switchbacks above tree line. We rested every other switchback, managing our pace, breathing hard.

We summited Mt. Belford by 7:45 a.m., then split—Rob took the trail down while Aden and I branched left to climb another mile to Mt. Oxford's summit. Now we entered what climbers call the "pain cave," where every breath and every footstep hurt and escape was impossible. A swift trail runner passed us on the saddle, his steady pace and cheery wave a silent push to keep moving.

From the summit, the world expanded in all directions—slopes plummeting to rock-strewn waterways below, avalanche chutes carved into the mountainside, wisps of cloud drifting past our faces, mountain peaks layered against the horizon. We summitted Oxford and began the long slog back through the saddle and up the jagged ridge toward Belford. The pain cave deepened with each step. When the only way out is through, you move. You pause and then move again.

Six thousand four hundred feet of vertical gain. Over twelve miles. Nine hours including rest stops. Our knees protested, my hands ached from gripping the poles, our stomachs rumbled with confusion. But we descended with something precious—the particular satisfaction of bodies pushed to their limits and held firm. The specific joy of standing on top of the world with your daughter (and husband!), exhausted and triumphant, and knowing you had the strength to climb, to reach the mountaintop on your own two feet.

The Reasons We All Come Back

After a chaotic end to July and August, I've spent most of the last three weeks away from my desk. First to my brother's lake house in southern Michigan for Mom's 80th birthday with the entire family, then to a swim meet in Clovis, California with 31 young swimmers, then a brief escape to the Broadmoor with Rob, then Aden's quarter-century celebration with a Noah Kahan concert and birthday dinner. Tomorrow we head out to climb 14ers in central Colorado (weather and legs willing), with hot springs to follow.

But let me focus on Paw Paw Lake, where the family hilarity began before we even arrived. On the drive from Midway, Rob scorned a Justin Timberlake song on our family playlist. William, with perfect subtle vengeance, restarted the song every time a track finished. By the eighth time, our giggles had turned to hysterics while Rob maintained a long-suffering grip on the steering wheel.

We arrived to find all eleven nieces and nephews, my three brothers and their wives gathered by the lake—playing cornhole, fishing, sprawled in the docked pontoon boat, tearing around on jet skis. Our kids grabbed a frisbee and immersed themselves in the chaos while I began my three-day effort to catch up on the busy lives of my siblings.

Mom and Karen arrived that evening to a roaring welcome. Stories flew across the porch like seagulls evading capture. Family songs erupted and the little ones looked bemused as adults devolved into "remember whens." Remember when Dad fell backward in his chair at Christian's wedding? Remember when you had a cheeseburger in your pocket for six months? Remember when Nana and Papa sang "Islands in the Stream" in drag for their 45th anniversary?

That last question sent us inside to Karen's YouTube channel—family videos from past reunions. I lost composure immediately, laugh-crying through every frame. My young nieces and nephews delighted in spotting themselves as round-cheeked babies, held by various adults, participating as best they could.

The next day brought more activity. I rode a jet ski behind William, clinging to his life vest as we tore across the lake at 60 mph. My grin became so fixed my teeth dried out. Aden and I paddleboarded. Carol and I walked a beautiful trail. Mom unveiled gifts for everyone—bookmarks and cards—and we circled around reading our special quotes aloud, voices catching with tears.

On our final evening, we celebrated Rob's birthday at a local winery where a band played. We danced, retreated to shade, snacked, danced again. One brother tipped the band to play "Happy Birthday" with a raucous second verse that had Michael slapping the table and Rob threatening to abandon the dance floor. We gathered for our ritual family photo outside near the vines—all twenty-four of us beaming in bright sunlight, the youngest attempting escape as is tradition for family photos.

This is what we come back for - to remember who we are together. To hear the same stories told the same way and have them land differently each time because we're all a year older, a year changed. To dance to a song we don't know with people we've known our entire lives. John and Carol created the space for it. The rest of us showed up and filled it with laughter, tears, jet skis, and "remember whens." That's everything.

Telephobia

My Google AI defines telephobia as "a specific type of social anxiety characterized by intense dread and avoidance of making or receiving phone calls." I looked it up after procrastinating for an entire morning: I'd chosen leg day at the gym, a thorough house cleaning, and a trip to Walgreens over a simple to-do list of phone calls. The behavioral symptoms made me laugh—they read like a confession. "Deliberately letting calls go to voicemail and only communicating via text." Check. "Procrastinating or completely avoiding necessary, task-oriented calls." Check and check.

I'm an extreme introvert, which explains some of the social anxiety. I've made the requisite adaptations for functioning in the world: first one in, first one out at parties (I circulate best in small groups), quick exits from gatherings, perpetual temptation toward the Irish goodbye rather than the honest farewell. In middle age I've learned to speak less and listen more—a strategy that reduces opportunities for overshare or what I'll euphemistically call "verbal diarrhea."

But here's what doesn't make sense: I don't mind public speaking. Give me a microphone and a crowd and I'm fine. It's disembodied voices through a receiver that make me want to hide. I prefer my people in the flesh—actual faces, actual presence. If we have to communicate at distance, I'll take text or email, where I can edit myself and control the pace. I can craft words on a screen.

What I've learned through hard self-awareness: I need three hours alone to recharge after every four hours of social interaction. I've stopped hoping this improves with age. If anything, I suspect the symptoms are worsening.

If I owe you a phone call, I apologize. Sincerely. A text will arrive soon—much sooner than the call, I can guarantee.

Playing by the Rules

When the kids were small, they learned to play games at their grandparents' table. Candyland and Chutes and Ladders gave way to Uno, which gave way to games of strategy and fierce competition in group Solitaire. They learned the speed and force required to slap a card on the stack, honed their split-second reaction times, respected the rules that made the game possible.

Daniel, in particular, struggled with the black and white boundaries of any game. When he perceived losing, he sought to amend the rules. Why couldn't he flip an extra card, sneak a peek below? If he didn't like the dice roll, shouldn't he try again? His grandparents were patient and unshakeable: no cheating. It's too bad if you don't like how the game is going. You don't get to ignore the rules.

Tears came. Game boards flipped. But Daniel learned.

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After this past week's events—the interference in the World Cup, FIFA's capitulation to demands from our national leader—I've been struck by how many adults never learned that lesson at their grandparents' knees. I know some believe playing by the rules is for suckers, that if you can leverage influence, money, or power to get what you want, you should. The rule is just an obstacle. An inconvenience.

Here's what else life teaches: actions have consequences. If you cheat and the world turns on you, rendering you a villain when you were the plucky underdog the week before, that's not persecution. That's a result. The players seemed uncomfortable with the interference - it wasn't their doing. The coach embraced it. What a sad and unnecessary ending to what had been a brilliant run by USA Soccer.

I hope when my kids have children, I can be patient and thoughtful enough to teach them what Bill and Connie taught ours. We are lucky to have their guidance.