Restraint Collapse

 A New YorkTimes headline caught my attention: "End of day meltdowns are not just for kids: but there are ways to avoid them." I clicked immediately, recognizing myself after barely making it to 6pm on Friday before snapping at the dinner table and retreating to a dark room to binge-watch "Scandal."

The article discusses "after-school restraint collapse"—something any parent will instantly recognize from those afternoons when children arrived home emotionally spent from behaving throughout their school day. I remember many days when my kids needed snacks and an hour of quiet time before they could start homework or tell me about their day. If I rushed that process, I paid for it with sharp words and pent up frustration.

During those years of raising young children, I often faced my own nightly meltdowns. But it's been a while since I've experienced restraint collapse this intensely. Last week marked my first seven-day stretch at home in months, packed with work training, cleaning up after William's move, and supporting all three kids through major life transitions. Add three early morning workouts and oppressive heat, and the breakdown was inevitable.

My outburst—something along the lines of "You never listen to me! I'm not even important to this family!"—felt justified in the moment. I blamed the heat, menopause, early mornings, everything except my failure to recognize the warning signs. I should have listened to my body's cues and set boundaries much earlier. A nap, some quiet time, or simply saying no to one activity could have prevented the explosion.

The timing of the dinner table was particularly painful. These rare evenings when Rob and I are both home feel precious, with both of us managing constant demands on our time and energy. I don't want to fill this time with my personal restraint collapse. Perhaps I'll have mastered this balance of self-care and parenting by the time we have grandchildren. I certainly hope so—I don't want the grandkids putting me in timeout.

After years of helping others manage their emotions, I'm still learning to tend to my own with the same care and attention.

Finally, An Empty Suitcase!

Last night I finally unpacked my weathered blue overhead bag and ancient flowered toiletry case—the first time they'd seen the inside of a closet since July 12. The worn zippers and faded fabric tell stories of a whirlwind month that began with Rob, Aden, William and me hiking from Maroon Bells to Crested Butte through the wildflowers. Since that golden weekend, I've ricocheted between British Columbia's family gatherings, California's blazing pool decks, New York's relentless sidewalks (helping William launch his adult life), and finally Colorado's towering peaks where Aden and I conquered another fourteener. I haven't moved through the world with such velocity since my consulting days—before marriage, long before children—and the freedom tastes intoxicating.

The six scorching days in Clovis, shuttling teenage swimmers between hotel, pool, and restaurant, exceeded every expectation. I videotaped races and award ceremonies, recorded splits, and cheered until my voice cracked. Working alongside athletes I barely knew before, I felt relationships kindling in the chlorinated air—trust building one encouraging word at a time. Leaving my family just one day after our Canadian return to coach other wonderful kids was wrenching, especially with William's departure looming. Yet I needed to nurture this coaching path, to cultivate something sustaining for the approaching empty nest years.

After a frantic few days moving William from Boulder, we boarded our direct flight to LaGuardia with three bulging suitcases. Clear skies welcomed us to Brooklyn, where his loft bedroom and experienced roommates offered William the perfect launching pad. We split our days between acquiring necessities at the delightfully named "Amazing Savings" and wandering Manhattan's transformed landscape. Thirty years has elapsed since my last visit, and the city stretched endlessly across my vision—a glittering testament to human ambition, architectural audacity and the emotional strength to rebuild after 9/11.

Saturday brought ten miles of walking through Central Park's verdant paths, past the financial district's gleaming towers, into Hudson Yards where William's office will soon relocate. The reclaimed Highline carried us above the streets while voices in Spanish, Italian, Polish, and Yiddish wove a linguistic tapestry around us—English surprisingly rare among the international throngs. Sunday delivered gluten-free crepes and coffee before we ventured via Metro to Wall Street's canyon of commerce, Battery Park's harbor views, the memorials at the North and South Towers, and finally the best everything bagel I've tasted in decades at Modern Bread and Bakery.

Saying goodbye to William after Sunday dinner proved predictably devastating—tears soaking my pillow as I mourned this latest milestone in our family's evolution. Yet beneath the heartache pulses profound gratitude for these accumulated adventures, for the energy and courage to seize each opportunity. I can still recall being paralyzed by autoimmune illness, too anxious to drive, too overwhelmed to navigate a simple grocery store. This current freedom to move through the world—to chase summer across states and seasons—feels like grace beyond my wildest imagination. As the children conquer new territories I will have even more good reasons to explore and be amazed.

We're All in This Together

The sticker selection in our mountain wine shop sprawled like a colorful map of alpine life. Snow cats and multicolored peaks competed for attention with cheerful "I'd rather be skiing" slogans rendered in bright bubble letters as we waited to purchase our vinho verde. Then one circular message with relatively modest red lettering emerged from a sky blue background, cutting through the visual noise: "We're all in this together." I didn't buy the sticker, but every time I've closed my eyes over the past three days, I can see it emblazoned against my eyelids like an afterimage burned by sudden sunlight.

My mountain weekend with old friends was orchestrated by the husband of the birthday girl we'd gathered to celebrate—a perfect gift both for her and for us. The weather blessed us with evening chill and Saturday sunshine, the previous week's rain clearing in wisps of cloud so we could savor the sun filtering through pale green aspen leaves and summer wildflowers on our meandering walk to town. Our conversation flowed like the creek beside the path: children, marriages, careers, current events, music, literature, card games. We never surrender to television during girls' weekends—our voices provide all the entertainment we need.

After twenty years of friendship, few secrets remain and honesty flows as freely as wine from our glasses. We revisited the exhausting terrain of raising young children from our current vantage point of launching adults into the world—some even walking down aisles. None of us claim family roots in Colorado, so we became each other's chosen family, weaving ourselves into an unbreakable support network. When illness knocked me sideways, one friend navigated middle school orientation for my daughter, another orchestrated the meal train, a third accompanied me to doctor appointments. We rotate through these acts of grace as life delivers its inevitable and seemingly insurmountable challenges.

Now our conversations sparkle with the kind of openness that paves the way for riotous laughter: we compared notes on wonky hips and physical therapy exercises, sheepishly apologized for digestive episodes triggered by the previous night's lentil soup, and exchanged observations about how we and our husbands navigate this strange new chapter without children underfoot year-round. A few weeks ago, I'd reflected on how difficult genuine connection has become in our screen-dominated world, and this weekend in the mountains went far toward mending those gaps in shared experience. It felt like a friendship vow renewal, and I'm profoundly grateful.

We kept our phones largely silent and our screens dark, so Sunday afternoon's news struck like cold water, shocking some of the weekend's delight right out of me. Reading about troops and guardsmen, peaceful protests and dangerous skirmishes, all I could think was that sky-blue sticker's simple proclamation: "We're all in this together." Everyone—regardless of gender, age, political affiliation, or socioeconomic background—everyone who recognizes something has gone terribly wrong, we share this moment of reckoning. I don't know what else to believe, or how else to help, except to remind us all of our chosen families, our intentional communities, and the universal longing we harbor to feel safe and secure in the world we're creating together.

Perhaps that's why the sticker continues to float behind my closed eyes—not as naive optimism, but as essential truth. In our fractured moment, we need each other more than ever.

Home Update for Almost-Empty Nesters

The cats and I hide out in my son's bedroom as dust rises from the first floor, sending us all into sneezing fits. Construction crew members stomp in and out of ground floor doors, ripping out damaged flooring and cleaning the subfloor before installing the new wood. This project - the first major work we've done on the interior of our home after twenty years of residence - is long-awaited but disconcerting. The cats grooming themselves next to me provided impetus after destroying the downstairs carpet, and we decided to update the house so we can enjoy it now rather than wait until we're close to a retirement-age sale.

Though we can be in the house while it's being updated, the noise and dust and general dismay of seeing our home dismantled makes for an uneasy week. Compounding my unsettled state are feelings of guilt over spending money, over the waste that we create by throwing out old materials. I've watched friends and neighbors do major projects over the years and always shied away, but twenty years of wear and tear shows in our baseboards, paint, and floors. When we moved here our two oldest children were three and eighteen months, now they are independent (almost) adults and we are (almost) empty-nesters. 

Bannisters treated like monkey bars, carpeting used for picnic blankets, proliferating litter boxes, and grooves worn by hundreds of thousands of exits and entrances all show in our home. We don't entertain much, but we certainly use our space. During the pandemic it became our world, home office, gym, and respite. I'm more attached than I've ever been to a residence - it's the longest I have ever lived in one place. Though we don't technically need the space any longer, and our kids' bedroom furniture is obsolete, we won't be leaving any time soon. 

We're even updating room arrangements and rugs, a change that dismays our youngest son. He wants everything to stay as it was, an impossible task in a world where sands shift hourly and attention flits from new to newer. My attention is focused on how few additional dollars might be required to create a sense of newness (maybe we can raid the kids' bedrooms), but excitement grips me as I think about change. Almost empty - nesters we might be, but our nest will be well-feathered.

Leaving a Mark

A few nights ago I stumbled out of my high-waisted jeans, apparently unable to lift my right knee high enough to extricate that leg from pants. Dancing around on my left foot, I finally toppled over and caught myself with my left hand, leaving a nighttime application, anti-aging, avocado-oil handprint on the cold tile.  Rob called from the other room, "Are you OK in there?"

I looked down at the handprint and felt a wave of hysterical laughter rise - alongside a sinking feeling of loss. Insert hysterically laughing/crying emoji here. A strangled response emerged, "Yep. just fine. I couldn't get out of my jeans, but I will recover."

Later that night I slept too hard on my left side and temporarily pinched a nerve behind my shoulder blade, rendering me incapable of turning my head in either direction.  Injured while sleeping - a common occurrence. I've suddenly lost my smooth neck, gained a million more freckles and gray hairs, and now require pillows to box me in on both sides at night to prevent shoulder injury.

The years have left a few marks on me, even as my smile lines (and magical photo frame) note that most of those marks have been happy. The impacts are accelerating, too, just like the days and months that whirl by (how is it already March?)

Our house also records history - different notes from the different family members. Black grease marks in the master bedroom wall from the years Rob had an elliptical machine up there, current Peloton towels, fans and sweat marks on the bike.  A broken stair-rail pillar from Daniel's hasty grab as he whirled down the stairs, hallway art from Aden's prolific period. Senior photos, William's bedroom holding his trophies and occasional closet resources for Daniel. The cats, too, share their marks; cat hair drifting into the corners, claw marks down the leather couch.

After almost twenty years in the house it's time to re-paint, re-finish the wood floors, update the kitchen. I'm sometimes excited by the possibilities and sometimes reluctant to contemplate the loss of our visual history. The same principle goes for my face... sometimes I want to investigate youthful promises of various skin care professionals, start wearing makeup again, use eyebrow serum, etc. But then I waver, detained by either exhaustion or resignation. This is who I am, and I'm grateful for the life I've lived.

But I may sit down before taking off the next pair of high-waisted jeans.

Parenting Roller Coaster

 On the rare occasions that I ride a roller coaster, my stomach clenches tight and then flies out of my mouth as I go down the steep hills, forcing me to scream it out so I don't spontaneously combust. The past month encompassed a series of metaphorical roller coasters that turned my stomach in knots, but screaming it out did not help - nor did clenching my teeth and holding my breath or swearing that I didn't care and trying to look away.

Parenting can feel like an amusement park ride, sometimes a fun diversion, a source of joy and thrills, and sometimes a source of dread and horror. A good friend asked me for parenting advice this week, because I am older / my kids are older, and I've seen a few things. I passed along one choice tidbit that has served me well: when you are grappling with a tough situation, don't start playing the movie forward, don't envision your child's future life based on their current actions.  "That's good advice," she said, "because the movie in my head right now is rated R."

What to do when your child flouts your wishes at every turn, runs afoul of the curfew police and cares not for their parent's rules, heartfelt conversation, carefully written behavior contract?  I obviously don't know, because none of the prior methods has been effective this summer.  We hope for peace, for general compliance, but every time hope surges and our metaphoric party balloons inflate, something else happens to burst our balloons and send us back to the drawing board.

Yesterday I woke up happy, pleased that our kiddo was on a church mission trip about 90 minutes away, texting good news. The space between us felt restorative and a few days of peace glimmered. Yet only three hours later my phone rang with news of a precipitate stomach bug and the request for me to drive down and pick up my young missionary. No matter that I had hours more of work, that driving close to three hours would blow up my day. I vented to tears of frustration for a few minutes and then did what I had to do. The youngster and I didn't speak for the whole ride home; I didn't trust myself to open my mouth.

Hopefully the amusement-park antics of our offspring will subside soon, hopefully peace is on the horizon, but I can't play even that happy movie forward since I have to deal with what happens today. One day at a time, I keep thinking. To parents everywhere, I feel your anguish and your trials as you strap yourself once again into the roller coaster. Hold on tight and scream if you have to.

Fall Milestones

I'm relieved that leaf-peeping season came a little late this year. When I finally emerged from the house after ten days of isolating in the bedroom, the maples and the cottonwoods were still green and only the ashes had started to turn, at least at this elevation. On Sunday, Daniel drove us up to Evergreen in the foothills  (two more hours toward the 50 he needs for his license!) and we saw a few aspen trees waving golden boughs. I know in the high country they're lit up like thousands of bright candles, and hopefully we will still get to peep this coming weekend on another of Daniel's drives.

COVID really hit me like a Mack truck; I even fell asleep once while reading, my head in my hand, balanced on my side and one elbow. Somehow I napped in this position for an hour, unmoving. Scary stuff, and yet because I didn't require the hospital or breathing assistance, it qualifies as only a moderate case. If you haven't had your fall booster yet, I definitely hope you get one.

While stuck in my room I missed a girls' weekend in the mountains and a national conference for SwimLabs. Yesterday morning I received multiple congratulatory texts from co-workers about a national award I won for swim instruction; they sent photos of the big screen, the award, and a video of my boss's kind speech. I'm touched, semi-relieved and semi-sad that I wasn't there to see it go down in person, and also surprised (still!) that my career has turned in this direction. Not what my father had in mind when he paid for Harvard, I think. Life takes many unexpected turns.

But fall (like every season) is a season of change, and continually offers a jolt of surprise. Leaves morph into vivid flame, the rain falls, and our children continually grow and experience new things away at school. I love watching as their sweaters and jackets emerge in Snapchat photos, and hearing their new challenges when they call to celebrate milestones and to vent frustrations. My hope is to keep changing, too, to heal and restore strength as well as to take on new adventures and appreciate the beautiful changes that string us along through life.

Annual Wave of Work

 Apologies to families and friends who look for semi-regular blog posts at this address: I've been drowning in the second annual "wave of work." The wave occurred last year at this time, magically drowning my sorrows at dropping William off for his freshman year at college. Again this year, I was swamped in new writing and swim curriculum work in the days after we moved William (with Aden's help) into his new apartment. The universe is looking out for me and trying to distract me from the "Find My" app on my phone.

The long weekend provided a respite of sorts, despite having to fit a few hours of work in each day. Rob and I hiked with the kids on Saturday and took them out to lunch, enjoying tales of new classes and jobs, catching up on drama from swim team and clubs. On Sunday I attended a Lead Sports conference centered on swimming. Watching Olympians swim (right in front of me!) to demonstrate drills and help young ladies with their stroke technique was a unique and fruitful opportunity. Many of our high school swimmers were there and their smiles and wild waving from the pool deck made my day.

Well, it made my day until the late afternoon sessions, when we got to hear Olympic medalists and training partners Lilly King and Annie Lazor speak to a small group of parents and coaches. They each spoke of their training journey and college recruitment process, diving into family support, odyssey through multiple coaches and training groups. Both women are unapologetically strong and fierce, tempered by maturity (now that they're in their mid-20s) and eager to help young female swimmers.

Their talk went over by a few minutes and afterward I walked swiftly to the front to wait in line for a brief chat and photo. I told them both that their friendship and mutual support at the Tokyo Games was my favorite part of the last Olympics, and how much I appreciated seeing that play out. Then I told Lilly that she had "wished" me a happy birthday when I turned 50, via a paid cameo video that Rob purchased, and Lilly high-fived me (possibly for being the oldest person in the room but hopefully because I loved her video).

When all is said and done, being productive and trying new things, while tiring, feels rewarding, good and solid. I'm grateful for work, work friends, and teammates, who tide me over between the golden moments when my family can all be together. I hope your fall is off to a good start, and that relationships bless and carry you through the challenging spaces in life.

Ray of Light and Plastic Plants

I've been watering a plastic succulent in the backyard for at least six weeks and congratulating myself on it staying green through our variable summer weather. The realization knocked hard against my head last night when I watered it - and then pinched the leaves only to finally realize that they are NOT REAL. A fine blow to the ego, that was.

It's good to be humble, but I am sending a plea to the universe to stop reminding me of my imperfections. Could I maybe just go a week of pretending that I can do this "adulting" thing? Sure it was hard to send the kids back to school but my brain should still remember how to function - I've been shuttling them off to fall semesters for the last sixteen years.

Age, or denial? Who knows what's really at fault. I do know that I had a blast last night at our "Willowstock" neighborhood festival, catching up with friends (though we had to search a while to find the people in our age group) and then drinking adult beverages and spontaneously singing along to "The End of the World as We Know It." The band played a few more covers like "The Rain King" by Counting Crows and others from the 1990s, which indicated to all that the bandmembers were around our age.

And a little beacon of hope, a ray of light courtesy of my brother Michael's announcement that he and Pam are having a baby in February - convinced me that I still have little ones to hold and christenings to attend.(That are unrelated to my own children / becoming a grandmother very early). A harbinger of hope and youth, a reminder that life is always joyful right around the corner, plastic plants notwithstanding.

Giving Care

I forgot how Daniel reacts to anesthesia.

Silly me, for planning any work or activities on the same day that he got his wisdom teeth out. I was rapidly disabused of my faulty logic when the nurse came out of the procedure (finally) to say, "he's very emotional - I need your help!"

"Now you need me," I thought but didn't say as I picked up all my belongings from the waiting room where I'd spent the last two and a half hours, "You should have let me go back with him for the IV and pre-op stuff so he wouldn't be so anxious."  

Daniel was moaning and weeping and incoherently asking one question repeatedly as I took his hand and tried to get him to slow his breathing. The machine monitoring his heart rate beeped like crazy as he muttered "air ar air ods" over and over.  After ten minutes of this I finally understood him saying "where are my air pods?"

"You brought your airpods to the surgery?" I asked in disbelief. "Where did you put them and why?" Daniel gestured wildly to his pocket; I looked in both and under him but no airpods to be found. I dismissed this as A. Ridiculous and B. More than I could handle at the moment.  The nurse and I helped a weepy, staggering Daniel out to my car, where he limply lifted a hand for the seat belt and began crying again about  - you guessed it - airpods.

The emotional outburst slowly diminished over the next forty minutes as I sorted piles of drugs on the counter where William's meds had just abdicated space. From ACL surgery to wisdom tooth removal, over the last two weeks I've remembered the every-minute crisis care and nursing skill that sometimes goes hand-in-hand with mothering children. This type of hands-on, sacrificial, round-the-clock care is not so common with children in their late teens and early twenties, and boy, do I NOT miss it.

Difficult to maintain a calm, caring presence when Daniel's meds wore off and gave way to anger, frustration and stomach issues. Similar scenes floated to my consciousness of his early surgeries: tonsils and adenoids removed when he was two, ear tubes put in when he was four. I guess I can be forgiven for forgetting or blocking out those difficult days, after all the twelve years intervening have been full of other adventures.

Caregiving is HARD, and so many of my friends and family are in unexpectedly difficult times of caring for others. Teachers are overwhelmed by serious needs of students, pastors are similarly drowning in the needs of their flocks, and we all know how stressed medical professionals have been over the course of the pandemic. Friends have aging and ill parents to care for, spouses have their husband or wife, parents have ill children and children have parents who are sick. At least, I reason with myself, we are so fortunate that both the boys' surgical procedures achieved good results and the recovery time is fairly quick. Having lived with chronic pain myself for the past ten years, I am appreciative of solutions that promise relief.

I wish our society appreciated caregiving, because it demands so much from human beings and makes other parts of our lives difficult: other jobs (that actually pay), time to restore ourselves, time to sleep, even. I'm grateful for the friends and family who take care of me and firmly resolve to be a much better patient in future, whenever the opportunity arises.

Snakes and Crowns

 I went to the dentist for the first time in over six months and sat in the chair with some trepidation. Of course the technician wanted x-rays, and I took a long hard think before allowing her to go ahead, even explaining the moment of silence as "trying to think of a reason why not, but I couldn't."

After that propitious beginning, I stared ahead at the world map in front of me, the now-familiar cities of Ukraine directly before my face. I made another ill-considered stab at conversing by mentioning how much I now know about that country. The hygienist raised an eyebrow over her mask and said she didn't watch the news, then lowered the chair back so I could stare up at the TV mounted to the ceiling. 

The dentist's TV was playing Natural Geographic-style videos of animals in far lands. While being poked, prodded and scraped for tartar removal, the screen above me showed a desert vista, where a knot of snakes pursued an ungainly lizard across the sand. Lizards aren't normally sympathetic-looking creatures, but I cheered for that lizard to evade the horrid group of snakes and had to turn my head away when the poor guy lost his battle and got squeezed to death. (The hygienist quickly turned my head back to where she wanted it.)

Adding insult to injury, the dentist came in at the end to inform me that I have a crack in a molar, surrounding the old filling and pushing through to the outside. He asked me if I was feeling lucky, then said I could make it a long while without needing a fix or my tooth could crack tomorrow, in which case a crown might not save it. I wasn't feeling lucky, so put off making a decision about the crown.

I did encounter my good friend at the dentist, and later celebrated her fiftieth birthday with other friends at a celebratory dinner. It was lovely to be out, even as a new wave of COVID creeps into Colorado, even as my own daughter sent me a picture of her positive test result. Today I head to Boulder to take her some groceries and to take our son to the orthopedic doctor who will hopefully tell us how to repair the torn ACL. Still not feeling lucky - guess I will postpone the crown decision for yet another day.

Homecoming in the Age of Covid

[Disclaimer: my sophomore has not only given his permission for me to write about our Homecoming prep experience, but encouraged my efforts, noting that he "doesn't star in enough blog posts."]

Attending a homecoming dance - any dance - any social event, period - in the age of Covid represents a triumph of returning high school rituals and tiny blooms of self-confidence. Many students were dealt body blows to confidence and self-acceptance by the torture of Zoom or hybrid school, going months without live peer interaction. We parents excitedly prepped for the return to in-person, or "regular" school, not realizing that the hustle and bustle, the 1,000x stimulation would cause great anxiety for many kids, grades pre-k through post-grad. And so Rob and I celebrate our son's Homecoming preparation rituals, even as we added a few gray hairs.

Four days before the dance, Daniel said to me: “I need to find a restaurant where we can eat, and it should be vegetarian, since my date is vegetarian.”

"Good, OK," I said. "I can help with that." No further words were exchanged, since my advice on virtually any subject is currently toxic. 

On the afternoon of the dance, I asked innocently, “Did you decide on a place to eat?” 

“The X Tavern. It’s near the school so we can walk to the dance after.”  

Daniel waved me off as I Googled the place, a bar and grill specializing in burgers. I started to say something, then held my tongue under his ferocious side eye. I figured Daniel's date could eat a salad. But I did insist that they accept a ride from dinner to dance since a two-mile walk seemed slightly out of line for a young lady in (I suspected) high heels. 

Dressing for the dance revealed heightened nerves and apprehension. Hair woes required use of special conditioner, gel, hair dryer, endless consolation, and finally our total silence on the subject. The buttons on the shirt were wrong, the tie too long, the shoes too tight. Daniel insisted on trying black Vans with his suit, we demanded he change back to one of his two pairs of dress shoes. Black shoes of various types were strewn around the living room: shoe-bomb shrapnel amidst the wreckage of dry-cleaning wraps and discarded ties and belts.

A confrontation over the suit jacket raised the volume on our arguments still higher. Daniel insisted the dance was “semi-formal, Mom! I only need the shirt and pants for a semi-formal, the jacket makes it fully formal!” We refused to drive him to his date’s house until he put on the jacket (it was cold and windy), insisting that at our seven previous Homecomings all the boys wore jackets.

Furious that we were chauffeuring him (his license over a year away)  he cursed at us from the back seat and repeated his desire to go to boarding school, mostly to get away from us.  Duly noted. Rob followed phone directions to the date's house and when we pulled up, Daniel was beset by uncertainty. 

“Are you sure this is the right place?” he asked us suspiciously.  

“This is the address you gave us, Daniel. Six – oh – one – six.”   

He lit up, incandescent with rage, bleached blonde hair standing on end.  “I said six – ZERO – one- six! This isn’t the right house! What are you doing?”  

We couldn't help but chuckle (which heightened his anger) as we explained that – in this case – “oh” and “zero” were the same thing.

Fortunately, we were at the right house and Daniel’s cute date came down the stairs to meet him wearing a lovely short dress – and black high-top Converse sneakers.  “Guess we should have let him wear the Vans,” Rob muttered to me behind his hand.  The young lady's mom and grandma took a few photos in their front yard as Rob did the same. Both sophomores gritted their teeth and bore our interest for a few precious minutes.

In the car on the way to the restaurant we realized that Daniel had forgotten his school ID and mask, both required at the dance. Rob kindly promised to bring both when he returned to take the kids from the restaurant to the school, finally  reconciling Daniel to last ride with parents. Rob left them at the dance a half-hour early  but no complaints were made; who knows what they did between events. Rob and I went for the fridge door - a beer and a hard seltzer, respectively - and were in bed before 10pm, more exhausted than our young dance-goer, and more relieved that all went well.

 

Short but Not Sweet, Labor Day Week

This short week packed a powerful punch. Running from one event to another in record-setting heat, I came home smelly and soggy, hesitant to sit down lest I lose momentum or even fall asleep where my cheeks hit the cushions. Fatigue dragged on me, I walked through peanut butter. When I asked my nutritionist what was wrong with me, she ran tests and perused the results with a decided lack of concern. 

"Your progesterone is a little off," she said. "And you should stop taking melatonin." That was it - no underlying virus or threatening adrenal issue as has occurred in the past. Just age, perimenopause and one nightly spray of melatonin catching up with me.

I worked steadily into the evening last night, teaching swimming to excitable and sometimes irascible youngsters. In the final class I had a power struggle to deny one child the joy of hitting her sister with a swim stick.  As I covered the pool with limp arms, my watch rang with a strange Denver number. There was a sharp pain in my chest as my heart clutched reflexively; Daniel was at his first Ultimate Frisbee game in Denver, sans parents.

My wet fingers couldn't answer the phone and so I watched helplessly as it went to voicemail, which soon told me that Daniel was injured, complaining of pain in his back and numbness in his leg. His beleaguered coach asked if I wanted him to take my son to the emergency room. "No!" I thought as I struggled to wrap a towel around me and re-dial.

I got through to the coach, talked to Daniel, and reassured them both that Daniel should be fine with ice and Advil at home. The tone of Daniel's voice over the phone told me everything - that he was calm and ultimately fine, just shaken by a collision and anxious about the resulting bruise and soreness. The coach drove him to the house while I drove east to meet them. The evening was filled with limping, ice packs, and Advil (but no homework).  

That marks the second time this year that one of my sons has been referred to a hospital. My older son texted me earlier in 2021 with this:  "At the hospital, LOL."  An appalling juxtaposition of messages that I hope I never see again. My heart couldn't take it.

If I'm forced to admit that nothing's wrong with me or with this constant panic scenario, then I have to embrace this chaos as normal. Instead I'm going to will bury my head under the sheets with the fan on full blast, and hide out until this Labor Day week finally ends.

A Successful Launch into an Uncertain Future

 "When does the constant partying finally stop?" - CU Parent to the Parents' Facebook page

"Well, my husband and I are really excited to be empty nesters so we'll be going strong for a while. I will update you in December." - Quick-witted parent in response

My college students survived their first week of class. More importantly, our freshman limped through his first five days of constant partying and introductions to girls, frat parties, and late-night shenanigans. I got to both my Buffs for brunch on Sunday after Aden and I did a bike ride around Boulder. Pure joy to hear their thoughts, excitement, plans and concerns over iced chais and gluten-free pancakes. Now it will be a while until I see them as classes get really busy and club swim starts 

Life has returned to almost-normal for some of our kids, but it's difficult to grasp or believe its permanence. Even as I write, I'm trying to process the new mask requirement for all students K-12 in our county. It's supposed to be implemented tomorrow, though we haven't heard from the school district yet. The mask mandate seemed inevitable when districts in other parts of the country are seeing schools without mask mandates collapse under the weight of absences and quarantines, but we somehow waited for the inevitable to kick in.

Are we coming out of the pandemic, holding on, getting worse - it depends on where you live and which article you read. No one really knows, though the prognosticators have a field day in the daily op ed columns. In between scanning headlines (and trying not to read past the first paragraph) I seek joy - or at least amusement - like the social media interchange at the top of the post. Rob and I aren't partying at that level yet, though we have had more opportunities to at least think about going out. Hopefully there will be more cause for celebration soon.

Scratching the Control Itch

My first act after we got home from moving Aden in to her apartment was to vacuum the entire house. I moved on to de-cluttering, shuffling random leftover papers and possessions to my college students' rooms and then shutting their doors. The cats ran from my wild broom and my duster; I even made it out to clean the porch, where I grew frustrated about squirrels making a mess of my birdfeeders. I threatened them them with decapitation but they merely flipped me off with their golden tails and ran away with full cheeks.

Our backyard wildlife wasted no time in breaking through my illusion of control, but for a few minutes my orderly and antiseptic home soothed the pangs of longing for my kids. By removing the swim gear, leftover thank you notes, pay stubs and masks they left behind I hoped to soothe my sorrow, and the strange thing is that it worked, briefly. Satisfying the itch for control temporarily numbs me to emotional aftereffects of college departures. 

The control is always an illusion, subject to wreckage by squirrels, humans or other events. My remaining at-home child still stashes Doritos and energy drinks in his nightstand, and leaves messes wherever he lands. My Facebook account was hacked over the weekend at the same time a suspicious credit card charge made, leaving Rob to hack the hacker and get my account back, as well as call in for a new card number - the fifth time this year. Chaos always emerges from control, threatening to break the dam that holds more destructive emotions in check.

In the rare instances when I'm in control. when the floors and counters are bare, beds are made and the litter box clean, the world is my oyster. I'm sure that life will punish me for that last sentence with an upset afternoon, perhaps raccoons in the attic or a flat tire on my bike, but I'll just have to scrub the baseboards, purge the closets, and convince myself that I planned it this way.

Changes

"And so the days float through my eyes / But still the days seem the same / And these children that you spit on / As they try to change their worlds / Are immune to your consultations / They're quite aware of what they're goin' through"

Lyrics to "Changes" by David Bowie

The wave of emotion hit me in the frozen food aisle. I automatically reached for Trader Joe's gluten free mac 'n cheese and stopped before my hand hit the cold cardboard. I didn't need to buy it - William won't be at home to eat his favorite lunch, at least not until Thanksgiving. Tears threatened but  Aden came up exclaiming over the cauliflower fried rice and I blinked them back, thankful she's been home this week prepping for her move to a new apartment in Boulder. Enjoying her presence allows me to stave off unwanted sadness. I tell my friends, "Next week, I'll be depressed."

But sorrow has already sprung in my gut, that sneaky brain in the stomach. I know because I had chocolate for every meal today. The chocolate was pretending to be healthy: a protein bar with almond butter, a shake with coffee flavor, granola with probiotics. Let me get real and admit (for a second) that a solid chocolate diet is a sign of sad times, not good nutrition. 

And yet it's not really a sad time, it's exciting and even exhilarating to watch your child leap into their adulthood (as your partner restrains you and helps you reel in the safety net... just a little). We had a good time moving William into his engineering dorm; his new roommate impressed us all with his "chill vibe,"  easy, quick-witted banter, and lively lunch conversation. Rob and I enjoyed walking behind the boys and Aden through restaurant row on "the Hill" as she regaled them with tales of good eateries as well as places to avoid. 

So far William has followed through on his promise to Snapchat me at least once each day so I know he is alive. He looks tired and Aden tells me that he's been up late (he chats with her much more than with me), but I keep my fingers crossed that he's enjoying new people and experiences. The kids' adventures inspire me to plan a full fall schedule - hoping for new volunteer experiences and adding more shifts at work to stay busy. My children are absolutely "immune to my consultations" and I can only hope they keep me apprised as they ride this exciting new wave (and I try not to drown in my tears).

Don't Forget to Look Up

I stumbled on the grass near the volleyball court, waving my flashlight in erratic patterns as Rob called to me. "I already looked there, and I don't know why you're out here if you can't even see!"

A fool's errand, to search blindly in darkness for glasses. The missing glasses were expensive, graduated bifocals that I wear constantly, except when I sport their counterpart sunglasses. I had worn the dark lenses to our "recent grad" potluck at the park and expected to find my normal eyewear on the counter at home when I returned, exhausted and ready to veg in front of the TV. Instead, Rob and Aden helped me scour the house and both cars, while neighbors helped by turning on car headlights and sweeping the foliage.

I gave up the ghost at 11pm and wrote a sticky-note reminder to call for an eye appointment, falling asleep with the grim certainty that I was losing my mind in the lead-up to William's departure for college. The next morning, I turned on all the lights in the house and wore my sunglasses inside while looking again, this time adding the microwave, fridge and trash can. Rob suggested another check at the park and I went out to the garage, where my glasses case sat innocently on top of my car, with the missing requisite lenses inside.

How could we have searched both cars repeatedly and failed to notice the dark case perched on the roof? Yes, it was night, but we turned the lights on in the garage. We knew I had put the glasses case down (especially after checking multiple Ring video segments) but we forgot to look up. We missed out on both the glasses and a peaceful evening.

My brother James tells a poignant story about looking up. The day after my father passed away, James went for a walk outside, struggling to contain his tears. Not only had Dad died the night before, but a young deer had huddled against the house that morning, wounded in the leg, and a ranger had come out  with a shotgun. James felt optimism draining away and his steps were uncertain in the pale light of early morning. Then he heard Dad's voice, loud and clear. "Look up!" Dad said, and James obediently raised his eyes to the beautiful Mission Mountains, the eagle flying above, the swans on Flathead Lake. 

James says that voice shook him awake, revived him to the beauty and hope alive in the world. I forgot to look up and stumbled around blindly in the dark, missing the object I most desired. What are you looking for? Where does your gaze fall? It makes a difference. As I prepare to send William to CU, I need to keep focus on his excitement, on new possibilities and growth, and not gaze at his empty bedroom or his place at the table. No matter what happens to us, we choose where to focus our gaze. Whether half-blind or farsighted, the direction of sight is most important.

Community and Connection

 "New friends may be poems but old friends are alphabets. Don't forget the alphabets because you will need them to read the poems."  -William Shakespeare

As I followed Aden at a dead run through Chicago O'Hare's B Terminal, I thought of abandoning our effort to get to US Masters Nationals in Greensboro. Dodging other masked travelers in a high-stakes reality version of the game Frogger, we managed to arrive at our gate, gasping, in time for the connecting flight. "There are more people coming," said Aden to the gate agent. She had bonded with Speedo-backpack-wearing athletes on our first flight, even as she flew past them in the terminal.  Everyone finally made it, slumping into their airline seats and panting, just in time to be delayed another 90 minutes.

But I'm so glad we rallied, grateful to have made the aggravating trip to the East Coast, though the airport sprint and time change threw off my races on the first day. Aden suffered no lingering aftereffects from our travel and crushed her first day and second-day races, going lifetime best times in five for five. Watching her swim, seeing her look of delighted surprise each time she finished and turned to read the giant scoreboard, lit me up from my heartspace and erased the aches and pains of my fifty-year-old body.

Also valuable beyond compare, seeing my old friend Amelia after a thirty-year gap. Though connected by Christmas cards and occasional Facebook messages, we hadn't seen each other since college. Amelia and I swam together from age 13 - 16 after we both started (late to the sport) and we moved up from the little kids' lanes to seniors together, sharing relays, travel trips, and sweet 16 parties. Her family hosted me and my aunt for Thanksgiving of my freshman year in college when I couldn't go home due to time, money and (of course) the demands of swim team. I remember our group gathered around her brother as he played "American Pie, part 1" by Don McLean on the guitar as we gamely sang the lyrics.

Aden and I also met new friends; she exchanged Snapchat handles while I traded phone numbers for texting. Masters swimmers are focused and can be intense when it comes to swimming but are relaxed, friendly and funny on the sidelines. The group from Wisconsin were memorable with their individualized jerseys and their loud cheering, and the announcer kept us in hysterics with his false news reel beeps and static. Many swimmers were delighted when they learned I was swimming with my daughter, and often added wistfully, "I hope to get my son / daughter here to swim with me next time." Moments of connection and community that came so rarely during the worst days of Covid were everywhere in Greensboro, and I can't imagine a better way to spend a meet weekend.

Not Languishing

 "How to spur creativity when languishing" shouted one of my emails yesterday. How appropriate, I thought, then promptly deleted it.

While not exactly languishing, I have spent the summer focusing on family activities, swimming, friends and fun, mainly trying to distract myself from horrendous headlines and the knowledge that two of my children will move out in a month. Time is not an obstacle for writing, rather it's a stubborn turning away from introspection.

Instead of deep thinking, I relish car conversations with my daughter, dispensing such pithy bon mots as "Relationships are like guacamole, always a side but not the main course. Sometimes you want it and sometimes you don't." Chipotle-inspired comments masquerading as wisdom; that's about how deep I can go in the summer of 2021.

I cherish each family dinner, each grace and round of gratitude shared before the meal. I sit in silence with my soon-to-be college freshman and wait for him to share stories of late-night activities, which I'm sure  are edited for my consumption but nonetheless fascinating. With my youngest I exchange Snapchats and follow his mission trip progress throughout Texas. 

Humming in the background like a live electric wire, the knowledge that all this will change. Come Labor Day, an urgent need for activity and busy-ness will once again inspire regular blogs, hours of rewriting my book, environmental activism, and everything else I have put by the wayside. But for now, I'll continue my not-languishing, and let my creativity take a back seat.

I Need a Commercial Break

I was flipping through radio stations yesterday and the schmaltzy - but classic - lyrics of Peter Cetera's "Inspiration" floated my air-conditioned box. "You're the meaning in my life, you're the inspiration" he crooned before I switched back to commercials, willing my teary eyes to dry and focus on the road. How strange that I switch from songs to commercials in order to avoid emotional flashpoints.

William's swim team banquet was Wednesday night and I told his coach near the end of that long but lovely evening that I deserved a medal for withholding tears. He blinked, confused. His kids are younger and he may not completely understand the ache of loss surrounding graduation and departure for college, though certainly coaches and teachers experience grief when a favorite class departs and all that's left is an urgent need for restructuring and finding new talent.

In the words of William's head coach, the senior class was "generational," even "transcendent." They re-wrote the record books at the state and school level. William walked away with three All-American times (that means the top 100 times in the country this year, which I didn't know previously because I never came close to achieving it), the fourth-fastest 100 butterfly in school history, and a stack of team awards. The other seniors benefited similarly from their hard work, and they all supported each other's rise as a team, sticking with the sport even as the season extended a month into their summer vacation.

As the sun set over the Rockies the inevitable team slide show brightened up a big screen. Young faces gasping for air as they cruised through water, or masked in cheers and poolside rallies, all so full of promise, so passionate. Then the seniors' baby photos and earliest swim shots, chubby cheeks trapped under too-big goggles, curly hair escaping tiny swim caps, itty-bitty Speedos barely holding around their hips. The cherubic faces elicited oohs and ahs from the crowd and I could hear the coaches guessing the identity of each child, so different from the tall, broad-shouldered men on stage. And yet, so much the same, so dear and always and forever a child whose growth cannot be measured by times, points and awards but in heartache and heart-leaps, love and loss.