College Goodbyes

College Goodbyes

My oldest child is starting college this week, and my husband and I will drive him thirteen hours to school to help him get settled in his dorm.  Saying goodbye will be one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.

A mother’s life is full of teaching and guiding, and it’s full of letting go too.  It’s full of late nights spent rocking babies, praying they’ll survive the confusion and temptations of adolescence without needing intervention or therapy.  

And before you know it, teenagers are born who pull and strain against the walls of a cocoon which has held them in its sacred embrace since they were just a snuggle in their mothers’ hearts.  And as they pull away, we must helplessly watch as they cry into their pillows or endure the consequences of bad judgement.   

I’m not very good at letting go.  During my son’s first weeks of preschool, I hugged him and had to walk away as he sat crying on the floor.  Leaving him there to navigate on his own stretched my mommy muscles to a new breaking point.  And I piled on a few more pounds of guilt that squeezed my stomach into a gnawing angst.  

Sometimes letting go meant pushing my son forward.  When he was six on the first day of flag football practice, he didn’t know anyone and was reluctant to get out of the car.  

He sat with his cleats barely touching the floorboard and pleaded, “Mom, I don’t want to go.  Don’t make me go.”

“It’ll be ok, son.  I promise.”

If it had been my choice, I wouldn’t have made him go.  But he needed his share of dirt and sweat and the August sun.   

When he turned fifteen I thought I might be doing something wrong.  He hardly talked to me or looked up from his computer when I said goodnight.  I often walked away and wistfully reminisced about how my little boy used to fly at me, smothering me with hugs and kisses.  

Yes, I know all kids turn quiet during the teenage years.  But he’ll never know how the younger and prettier and more energetic me poured myself into him until there was hardly any of me left to go around.  But all teenagers forget, and mothers are just annoying.  Please go away.  

Through the years, my son and I danced to an unpredictable song, faltering and side-stepping whenever the tempo changed without warning.  As soon as I memorized the pattern of dipping and twirling, the song switched directions and I had to adapt.  At times I was sure-footed, and other times I was scared to death.  We were making up the dance as we went.   

We swayed together, and sometimes I released his hand and watched as he experimented with unsteady steps of his own.

Mom, I want to ride my bike to Michael’s alone.  

Will you just drop me off at the movie this time?  

Can I get my driver’s license on my birthday?  

I’d like to visit that college in Florida.  

With every milestone, he was becoming.  And so was I.

In a few days, his dad and I will hand him a credit card and most importantly, the Xbox, and leave him to find his wings.  In an awkward moment I’ll stand before him trying to translate the mystery of a mother’s love into the language of a teenage boy.

I want to tell him how very much I love him and why this parting is so difficult for me.  I want to explain to him that he, my first-born, holds a cherished place in my world because it was his kicks that made me tremble with awe when I felt the very first flutter of life inside me.  

He’s the one who carved the mommy into my body and soul and planted in me the purest, fiercest love in the world.  A consuming love that ignited my heart, eventually singeing the corners, causing his needy mother to pull back from the pain of it and to stop being so clingy and involved.

This goodbye hug will be hard because in an instant, he will be five again, a snaggle-toothed testament to sandboxes and green army men.  I’ll kiss his cheek and breathe in memories of new crayons and lunch milk and jitters on his first day of kindergarten—the initial step of a journey that would lead him to this point.

At the crux of where raw meets real, I’ll look up into his eyes and this time I will be the one saying, “I don’t want to go.”  

And my grown-up son, eager to explore and uncover the future inside him, will reassure me.  

“It’s my turn, Mom.  It’ll be OK.  I promise.”

I’ll manage a proud smile, thankful for our amazing journey together.  Then I will commit my son into his Creator’s hands and whisper a prayer that God would take my hand more tightly as my son’s hand falls from mine.

A Sleighfull of Magic Memories

At Christmas my nostalgia rises like the aroma of Slice-n-Bake snickerdoodles wafting through the kitchen.  'Cuz I'm kinda like Peg Bundy instead of Martha Stewart.  

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When my son comes home from college this month, I’ll pop a luscious Mrs. Smith’s pumpkin pie and Sister Schubert’s rolls in the oven to recreate the home-made aroma of Christmases Past, just like he remembers.  Nothing less for MY son.   

We’ll buy our live tree and decorate it together with the kids’ old handmade ornaments.  And like always, I’ll reminisce about the magic that permeated our home when little hands wrote crayon letters to “Santa Cwaus at de Nawth Po.”  

Dreaming of racetracks and toy kitchens with real sizzling sounds, my kids used to climb up on the mall Santa’s velvety lap.  One year, as I watched them there within the finger-licking scent of Cinnabon, I realized MY dreams had all come true.  

I stood in grateful silence.  Amid the chaos of scrambling elves and flashing cameras, I breathed an epiphany that grabbed my soul with both hands. It opened my heart like a sacred book, etching within its pages close-up snapshots of Dimples and Bashful in a smocked dress.  And the timid essence of a chubby little finger reaching for Santa’s beard.

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The Jolly Guy gave them a treat as they slid from his lap.  But I didn’t realize I would turn around and their hands would clutch car keys instead of candy canes.

It seems like yesterday that three freshly-bathed kids, waiting for Rudolph, snuggled up to Dad as he read The Night Before Christmas.  My two girls with pink, chipped toenails peeking out from Barbie nightgowns.  And my son in his Star Wars t-shirt leaning in close behind Dad’s ear.  They hung on every word, and Dad paused at the end of each sentence so they could finish the rhyme.  

I never imagined listening to Dad would be so hard for them when they became teenagers.

Christmas Day meant the patter of four little feet in footy pajamas tearing down the hall and a wide-eyed, squealing baby girl toddling after the fun.  She was just happy to be puttering behind her brother and sister, learning by heart the meaning of Family and Forevers and Fa-la-la’s.  I was too.

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Toddlers in full-body fleece were long ago replaced by teenage girls in boxer shorts.  But I often stroll through photo albums and love on my sleighfull of memories wrapped in Silent Nights and Little Tikes.  

Leaping from fuzzy Polaroids, my snaggle-toothed Cindy Lou Whos bear hug me, and I forget the frustration of finding red icing smeared into the carpet and meltdowns in the toy department.  And sometimes it was the kids who melted down.

Once while Christmas shopping, I almost had a mental collapse changing a diaper under the raised tailgate of my SUV.  Unusually stressed, I fumbled with the sticky strips in drizzling rain while the other kids’ fists were flying in the backseat.  I felt a familiar twinge of bat crazy twisting from my stomach when a misguided Happy Meal toy smacked me squarely on the forehead and a Goodnight Moon book whizzed past my ear.  

Every inch of me wanted to scream, “I don’t deserve this!” but I tried to remember the awe of kneeling beside them after bedtime prayers and butterfly kisses.  That sense of wonder always washed away the spilled sippy cups of exasperation and every bit of drippy ice cream on new shoes. 

These days I am humbled when I steal into my teenagers’ rooms at night and kneel in the same holy spot I’ve knelt in for eighteen Christmases.  The sense of Extraordinary cleanses away the leaking Gatorade bottles of frustration and every ounce of dripping sarcasm on the phone.  It’s that magical moment of the day when I linger over their amazing, lumpy bodies under the covers.  My misty eyes trickle praises to the Creator and I marvel, “What did I ever do to deserve this?”

Most Popular Posts

        Here's the summary of my most popular posts from the last two weeks:

BTW - PLEASE "Follow my blog" and "Subscribe."  Let's be clear, I'm SO not above begging.  


        Looks like "José Cuervo Might Move In" came in first. You can read it here for a good laugh.
It's about my plight with the cell phone company and Charlene, God's gift to Customer Service.

     

            I hope everyone had a good HALLOWEEN.  It has been very different for me and hubs the last few years because the kids are getting older.  I have a great story about that here.  I think you'll find it very touching.   It's about how the kids grow up so fast.

        By the way, since all the blogging experts say that you should write as if you have an audience of THOUSANDS, I'll go outside the box with my wonderful audience of 30 and ask,

 "WHAT SHOULD I WRITE ABOUT THIS WEEK?"  

        Is there something that gets on your last nerve, chaps your cheeks, curdles yer cream, puts sand in your craw?  

        Does it burn yer biscuit that when the kids go out and you have 1 hour and 45 min. to watch an R-rated movie, (you haven't seen one in a few years) that you always only get 3/4 of the way through because they have the gall to come back?  

        And why do they have to come back to YOUR house?  Maybe because all the other moms want to drink wine and watch Magic Mike?  Methinks.

        Does someone in your household leave HAIR on the bar of soap?  Did I hit a nerve?

        Why do your kids always take other people's advice and NOT yours?

        The bag of Halloween candy you just ate?

        How 'bout some Mom- and Dad-shaming photos?  

        Teaching your teenager how to DRIVE?  Doing that now!  AARRGGHH. . .  I just have to drink wine breathe deeply.  Did it in my SUV today—taught her to drive that is.

        Have a great week and PLEASE come back.  I'm trying to post new stuff every day!  BTW - "Follow" and "Subscribe" now.  The first 10 new followers get a bottle of José Cuervo and a straw. . .    

Wooo!  I crack myself up.

Special K and Chardonnay

“Why I Need Happy Hour” Friday

Special K and Chardonnay

Thursday night I finished my dinner of left-over lasagna and searched for something sweet.  I poured a glass of chardonnay because I deserved it on account of I hadn't had any since yesterday.  

        Special K Bars lined my pantry, but they’re made of cardboard, and cardboard does not go with chardonnay.  Everyone knows that cardboard is chiefly paired with Mogen David Rosé or strong coffee in the morning.  That came out wrong—I would not suggest Mogen David in the morning.  I’d love to have a big, chocolate Krispy Kreme most mornings.  Or a few calorie-inflated granola bars, but granola gives me gas.  However, I digress. 

 

Anyhoo, as I was trying to find something to satisfy my insatiable chocolate monster, I read the side of the Special K Bar box for kicks.

“Drop a jean size in two weeks (double exclamation points)!!  The Special K Challenge.”  

           Really.  I couldn’t drop a jean size in two years.  They should have an asterisk beside that.  I’m 38 (woo hoo!  Chardonnay just came out of my nose) going on 68 and I’m fixin’ to drop a Size 8 trou to a Size 6?  After three kids and a metabolism that shut down in 1998, I could really rake in the ratings on The View if that actually worked.  

So... I read the scientific "spin" on the side of the box.

MEAL #1:

Kick-start your day with a serving of Special K Cereal (ANY flavor) (oh yay) with 2/3 cup skim milk.  ENJOY with fruit.

It didn’t say how much a serving of cereal was.  I couldn’t translate the hooo-hah on the side of the box because I couldn’t translate metric into American.  So, I poured my artificially flavored Chocolate Special K into my usual cereal bowl and poured the thimble of SKIM in.  Well, I was sure the Special K people would like to avoid a big ‘ol lawsuit because of me choking on dry cereal so I poured just a Biggie size Wendy’s cup tad more milk in.

Meal #2:

“Replace another meal with a delicious Special K Protein Meal Bar, Special K Protein Shake, or another serving of your favorite Special K Cereal (ANY flavor) with 2/3 cup of SKIM milk and fruit.  

Since I didn’t have any strawberries without fur on them, I used a can of strawberry pie filling from last Thanksgiving.  That’s when I stopped talking to Aunt Billie Rae because she was being hateful and brought her “blue-ribbon” (I wish I had a dime for every time I’ve heard that) strawberry pie to Mama’s for Thanksgiving when she KNEW that I had signed up to bring it.

Meal #3:

Eat your third meal as you normally would.

This was cool.  So, my husband was out of town.  Mac ‘n Cheese for dinner.  That would not be up for debate with my kids.  I thought I needed a little protein since I was on a strict diet, so the bacon added a nice touch.  Sipping my chardonnay and boiling my noodles, I thought this diet’s working out OK.  

I’ll let you know when I’m gonna be on The View.

Organizing Coach Doesn't Know MY Kids

Organizing Coach Doesn't Know MY Kids

Recently I laughed through a magazine article entitled “Coaching, Not Nagging, Motivates Teens,” written by a revered “organizing coach.”  Since nagging is my full-time job, I perused it while trying to guess who’s gonna get tossed off Redneck Island, which is my other full-time job.

The author reflected on the teenage stage with rosy nostalgia.  Studies actually show that ten out of ten moms agree raising teenagers feels like getting your eyes pecked out by a chicken.  Her kids may have been responsive to her “coaching,” or they were frightened to death of her, which in that case, gives me a new, profound respect for her.  

Her suggestions would never work in my house.  For example,

#1:  Clearly communicate to your teen what you expect.  

Oh wow.  Never thought of that.  If they don’t understand my expectations the first time I scream it, then they need to get the headphones out of their ears.

#2:  Teen won’t get up in the morning?  Put an annoying alarm clock as far from the bed as possible.   

Tried that.  He can’t even hear the fire alarm, but tinkling his car keys beside his ear and whispering, “Goodbye little Kia” usually works.  I’ll have to send that one to the “organizing coach.”

#3:  Place a laundry basket in the bedroom closet, cautioning your teen not to put damp items inside.  

For funsies, let’s assume my teen puts clothes in a hamper.  And I’m not sure anyone would even notice a mildew smell over the noxious soccer bag in the closet.  Or the hamster I suspect died in there.  At least he shouldn’t smell like mildew.

#4:  Keep bathroom time to a minimum.  Set a timer by the mirror.  

Um... really?  I would suggest doing a Facebook run into their bathroom at 7:15 every morning before school with a camera, shouting excitedly, “New profile pic!”   That could backfire though.  Their expertise in hi-tech treachery triumphs over age every time.

#5:  Help them clean out their clothes closet.  Make two piles: keep or donate.  

We need a lot more piles than that, like “friends’ clothes I am keeping,” “friends’ clothes I may give back after I try on,” “friends’ clothes I can’t wear around them because they don’t know I have them,” and “clothes I can only wear if parents leave the house before I do.”

#6:  Give encouragement by recognizing ways in which your teen is already organized.  

What???  Ok, let’s see.  

“Hon, I love the way you organize your argument when you’re trying to persuade me to buy you another shirt from Allotamoney & Fitch.”  Case in point:

Teen logic:  (Premise #1):  “You always give us kids money to buy
                                                    presents for each other at Christmas.”

                   (Premise #2):  “I remembered Sis didn’t get me anything
                                                for Christmas.”  

                              (Action):  “So I bought this cute shirt for myself 
                                                 with my own money."  

                      (Conclusion):  “You owe me $35.”

     

My kids effortlessly ignore my nagging, but I rather enjoy it.  It perpetuates my fantasy that I’m actually someone’s boss.  You know, I bet I’d be the first one to get voted off Redneck Island.  

Is a Lack of Gray Matter That Hysterical?

Is a Lack of Gray Matter That Hysterical?

  My friend, Angela, has three kids and is continuously frazzled. Last spring, she dropped off her second-grader, Marcus, at his Catholic school for May Crowning, a religious ceremony dedicated to Mary. She dressed him in a suit and purchased the requisite bouquet of flowers to take to class.   

Angela’s memory is “over the hill,” but she remembered May Crowning, and she felt pretty darn “mother superior” about it.  She silently gloated, I have got it goin’ on! I’m sorry you other moms aren’t as organized as me. I’ve come a long way since all that Show and Tell business from September.  

The previous fall Angela forgot about Show and Tell so, of course, she gave Marcus an eyelash curler from her purse. A girl in his class used it and pulled out all her eyelashes because they stuck to the mascara caked on it. His teacher, Mrs. Uppington, who overblows everything like Stephen Spielberg, flew into an unnecessary panic. Angela thought, What’s the big deal? I mean, eyelashes grow back.

Then there was that incident on Career Day. Little Doogie Howser swiped a bottle of blue pills from his parents’ bedroom nightstand as a visual-aid for his presentation. 

The next day, he announced to his class, “Ladies and Gentlemen, this “scripshun” is for Vy-ag-rah.” 

Mrs. Uppington overplayed a case of trauma, and Angela’s husband can’t show his face at parent/teacher meetings anymore. 

After dropping Marcus at school, Angela enjoyed a latté to celebrate her alpha female dominance over the other loser moms. Shortly, Mrs. Uppington phoned.    

“Mrs. Peterson, are you aware that today is April 27th?”

“So??” she said. Here comes Spielberg.

“Well, I just wanted to inform you that you sent Marcus to school today dressed up and with flowers . . . ”

“Yeah??” Angela said, annoyed that her latté was getting cold. 

“And as a rule, Mrs. Peterson, May Crowning occurs in, ahem, MAY.”

A few hours later, Angela slinked through the lobby with Marcus’ school uniform, past the PTA Taliban moms who were at a school meeting and had heard about her memory malfunction. She also needed to check her fourth-grade daughter out of school for an appointment.

“Ha! I guess I thought they moved May Crowning to April,” Angela joked as she greeted the grinning moms. “It’s SO Friday! Ready for the weekend, ya know? Wow, what a hoot! Soooo, I’m mostly here to pick up Claire for an orthodontist appointment.” 

They laughed together a little longer, and Angela headed home. Great. I had to face Miss Uppity AND those Super Sally’s Gift Wrap groupies.  A few miles away, she worried she’d forgotten something. The orthodontist. She forgot to pick up Claire.

Angela slipped back into school and the PTA extremists were still in the lobby doubled over, laughing hysterically at her lack of gray matter.

I bet those Taliban moms experience their fair share of brain cramps. So they should watch out. Angela might devise a radical plan of her own and drop an undisclosed number of little blue pills into their husbands’ sweet tea glasses at the next school auction.  

I Already Paid My Dues

       As I prefaced in my last post, this too is a fictional story about my wonderful children.  This is LOOSELY based on them, but you know I love to exaggerate- except for the part about my son's scores on XBOX Live.  This could be a peek into ANYONE'S household with kids. 

I Already Paid My Dues

Our school requires summer reading, but in my house Dante and Edgar Allen Poe are no match for Donkey Kong and Nintendo.  If I step on one more game controller, I will take steps to recycle my kids’ “Dance Revolution” DVD into a wind chime.

As proud as I am that my kids’ scores on XBOX Live are in the 90th percentile in the country, my techno-teens are a little too consumed with anything on a screen.  Instead of mowing down zombies, they need to be mowing some bermuda.  My husband and I called a family meeting.

“Until further notice, our family is unplugged,” I declared to three stunned teenagers. “Household chores will be assigned, and ignoring your duties will result in my ignoring to pay your cell phone bill.”

“Why do you treat us like slaves?” my daughter texted me later that day as she dusted in the next room.

“Because that’s why we had you in the first place,” I typed back, like any good parent.

Last summer we sentenced my son to cutting and edging the yard.  He immediately brought to my attention that he was melting in the heat while I folded laundry.  I patiently smiled and held up a picture of he and his sisters, ages 5, 3, and 1 at Disney World one July, smiling at the entrance of the Log Ride. 

“See the joy in your little red faces?  That’s before we stood in line an hour for the Log Ride and discovered none of you could ride because you were shorter than Mickey Mouse’s red ruler.  Dad and I had little red faces too because we were dragging a double stroller and a 20 lb. diaper bag through Disney World so you guys could meet Shrek, and it was 10 degrees hotter than Hades.  Now go finish mowing.  You missed a spot by the driveway.”

My daughter wondered why it was her job to walk the dog in all kinds of weather while I sat inside doing paperwork.  I guided her to our keepsake box and pulled out the tiny ballerina costume she wore on her first Halloween. 

“Sweetums, on Halloween who do you think walked you to every house within range of a tornado siren to fill up your pumpkin pails?  Every year I dressed as Cruella de Ville for three school parties and scoured every store for the fake, bloody foot or go-go boots you insisted on.  And every October I chased the dog around the yard to give him a bath because you sprayed him orange.” 

Handing her the leash, I added, “By the way, Cruella de Ville sort of seeped into my psyche through the years, so you just might want to keep that dog away from me.”

My youngest daughter, whose job was to blow leaves from the yard, complained that it was too windy.

Marshaling the swirling leaves would have indeed been futile, so we rested and I told her about winds from a vicious storm 11 years ago.  I showed her a picture of her at age 2 standing on an uprooted tree in our yard, bent almost to the ground by a tornado.  When she was a toddler, I roused her from a deep sleep due to the tornado warnings.  Her drowsy eyes questioned why I pulled her out of a warm bed to cower in a closet.  When the windows popped from the air pressure, she began to cry.  My heart ached as I held my face against her wet cheeks.  

I’ve always tried to ease her fears, but I won’t be able to protect her forever.  

The best I can do is teach her to face her fears with confidence and rise above them. In the picture she stood on the uprooted tree as if she, rather than the treacherous wind, was the one who conquered it.  When she leaves us, I want her to believe she can conquer the world.  She’ll pay her dues and grow with every goal she accomplishes.  

But that afternoon she needed to pay her dues and accomplish the blowing.

The chores were done, and at bedtime I turned off the lights and stumbled, cutting my toe on a game controller.   It was time to put my mangled foot down.  

The next morning the kids finished their jobs and raced inside to play video games, but they couldn’t find their favorite “Dance Revolution” game. 

Meanwhile, I peacefully eased myself into a chair on the back porch.  The birds’ singing was especially sweet and the breeze was fresher than usual.  My wind chime seemed to jingle with more liveliness too.  Maybe it was because of the new ornament swinging in the center that added just the right touch—a shiny silver DVD.