Tweaking Us

Holden successfully completed his first year of college and arrived home sicker than a dog. His temp spiking as his body sought to recover from the enormous lack of sleep, poor food choices and long hours of studying for finals. He looked haggard, and it was difficult to understand him because his voice was almost gone. As soon as Holden was in his own bed, the sleep that eluded him came fast. He slept like a baby and became healthy again.

He arrived home sans his vast collection of nasty looking high tops. Also missing were the all-too-low-riding jeans, shorts and pants (“saggers”). During his first year of college he morphed into a prepster and now wears items like whales on his ties, sailboat adorned red shorts, slim above-the-butt properly fitting brightly colored pants, polos, and Sperrys. My, my, my…

When we left him at college last August Holden was madly in love with rap and hip-hop. His musical tastes broadened; he became a raving country fan. He attended the Brad Paisley concert the other night.

It’s cool. We’ve been preppy. We enjoy country.

Holden has been fortunate to secure fulltime summer employment (achieved when home during spring break). The hours are long, but the pay is fair. With driving, he’s gone for twelve hours long, so I don’t see him much. The “missing” I felt while he was away at college hasn’t fully abated.

Warned, I was ready for his newly expanded independence. Well, I thought I was.

Really.

How wrong I was.

Having a child home after they’ve been away for an extended time is an adjustment, for everyone. We have to become used to being physically together again and work through and come to an agreement about the expectations, rules and checking-in that are part of being a cohesive, connected and thoughtful family unit.

We’re tweaking us as the family dynamics change. When to step up, when to step back. The “dance” has changed. I still get to do Holden’s laundry and make his lunch. So far, so good…

The Gift of Childhood

It’s winter here where I live, but I’m a summer-to-fall soul. As much as I appreciate the beauty and quiet of the freshly fallen white blanket that covers the earth where we live, I ache for warmer days and more light. Every once and a while I find myself pining for my childhood.  The scent of hay, pungent sweet clover, the sound of bees—they bring the memories racing back, knocking me over with their almost tangible presence.

As a child I spent my summers outside, from just after breakfast until long past when the fireflies began their evening dance.  I only took breaks to eat, coming home to the sound of our meal bell or to light at one of the many neighbors’ picnic tables in our rural community.  There were summers where the majority of nights were spent in tents—at our house or one of my girlfriends’.

I was soothed (and still am) by the certain way the meadow grass sounded as the gentle warm humid summer breeze caused it to sway.  I spent a lot of time time laying in the meadow, invisible, dreaming and imagining, watching the clouds above me morph into fantastical images, only to dissipate and become something else.  I eagerly scanned the heavens for the next set of fluffiness, excited to see how they would tantalize and mesmerize my youthful perspective while I was enveloped by the symphonic orchestration of scent and sound going on around me. There was nowhere else I would rather be and that it is where I still travel in my mind to center, balance, and soothe. Be.

On the days I hung with my rowdy all-boy brothers, I waded into the creek, skipping stones and finding those slimy stinkers (crawdads) with my fingers, suffering a number of good pinches over the years. I wasn’t about to be upstaged by my brothers, so I joined in—catching garter snakes (one had umpteen babies after we brought her home), fish, crickets, and tadpoles (some of which made it into froghood). My mom welcomed it all. Took it in stride.

My brothers and I created forts, safe and contained fires, and carnivals. We made planks to jump our bikes and skinned our knees and elbows in the process—all without the protection of helmets or pads. I climbed trees, often sitting high above for hours watching over my small world and learning a lot about gravity and balance. I also rode bareback, fearless, with only twine from a hay bale to steer my great steed. I came to understand about the quick reflexes of rider and horse and why it was necessary to keep a roving eye on my surroundings when galloping though the trees. Every day was an adventure. I couldn’t risk enough. I was free!

As a parent I wish I could find the confidence to give my kids the same gifts my mom gave me and my brothers—peace and quiet from the “noise,” more permission to take risks, and the ability to experience nature, to be free from fear. I try, but feel I come up short.

The fear developed within me, arriving as a parasite on the wings of parenthood. When H was born I felt the full weight of parenthood—to protect fiercely, a love so profound I felt I would suffocate in it, a responsibility to raise a child with a strong moral compass, a commitment to taste a childhood similar to mine. I felt the same with J, A and G as well.

My kids enjoy being outside, however they don’t stray too far without me. I’ve shared my fear and I know they’ve lost true childhood experiences, those independent of their parents, because I do so.  They hike, camp, ride bikes, but they do so with me or another adult, and that’s sad. I will say this though; A is like her mama. She loves nature and regularly catches frogs, toads and snakes and brings them home. And I smile inside and feel better, but I still wonder… Where in their memories will my kiddos travel when they are adults and feel the need to center themselves? Will their childhood experiences have been enough to ground them?

The Post-Thanksgiving Post

I know, I know… I didn’t post for Thanksgiving.

I was overwhelmed with memories and gratitude. The big guy (my hubby) kept asking me why I was so quiet.

–> I was in a mode of reflection. All day, and most of the break.

I enjoyed being with my family (and several extended family members and oodles of Holden’s now-college-aged-friends), grateful that all six of us were together.

However…

It was just a year ago that we very sadly took Bruce, my father-in-law, to live out the remainder of his life in the nursing home. He died on May 17^th, barely a shadow of the man he had once been.

Alzheimer’s does that to a person. The disease begins slowly, robbing a person of their memory and eventually their ability to function at any level. But the soul peeks through, providing glimpses of that fine loved person—keeping loved ones connected to the human who is decimated, almost unrecognizable. While the patient dies, a slow disconnected death, those who live on struggle to come to terms with their grief and letting go and the inability to say, “Good-bye.” It was over a decade-long, emotionally-draining “good-bye” for us.

“Good-bye.”—I don’t like the expression. There’s a certain permanence to it.  I don’t say good-bye to my kids; I do ask (and pray for) them to stay safe though. Instead I say, “I love you.”

I said good-bye to my brother the day before his first death, not knowing that it was. I didn’t get to speak to John before he died again.  I wish I could have. I know John heard me say I loved him before I said good-bye because he said, “I love you too, sis.”

In the profound sadness and the grief that can swallow you whole as you let go, there is the light of gratitude and thankfulness—for the lessons, the love, joy, laughter, and guidance. I didn’t say “good bye” to my mom or McCoy or Bruce. Instead I said, “I love you. I’m thankful you were part of my life’s journey.”

Obviously, like many, I occasionally wander around in my memories and the mishmash of sorrow and gratitude.  The emotions settle down, becoming more nimble on their “feet.” And I become accustomed to the “new steps” and dance in the light.