Tag: empty nest

Cell Phone Fiasco

Yesterday, my cell phone went on the fritz. It locked up, it started speaking commands out of nowhere, and it wouldn’t shut down or shut up. The most disconcerting thing about the whole situation was how panicked I felt. My phone is about a year old, a new model and I really wasn’t up for getting a replacement phone. I got my husband involved with the whole fiasco and we looked up help sites and barked out orders to each other, grabbing the phone back and forth, getting grumpier by the second, with the situation and with each other. We seemed to be stuck in a quagmire, where even the old trusty “turn it on/turn it off trick” wasn’t going to work because the phone refused to turn off. We called our cell coverage carrier, the maker of the cell device, and the insurance coverage company of our cell phones, with no one having any really good advice to give to us. We spent a couple hours on this craziness, spiraling into a funnel of frustration. When I finally threw my hands up in the air and started the insurance claim, my 18-year-old son arrived home from the gym. He saw the frustration on his parents’ faces, the clumps of hair lying on the ground from being pulled out of our heads and he said, “Mom, could I just see your phone for a second? Could I just take a look at it?”

As futile as I knew that would be, I tossed him the phone so that I could get back to concentrating on my insurance claim. Five minutes later, he had it fixed, back to new. I didn’t even bother to ask him how he did it. I was too exhausted and relieved. I think my son’s generation and the ones coming up behind him have special abilities programmed inside of their heads, tied to technology, that my simpler model, retro-mind just doesn’t have programmed into it. And that’s okay. I know where to find my kids when I need help.

Sonder

It has been a slow, easy, relaxing weekend. I like it. Last night, my husband and I fell on to the couch rather late and ended up watching the acclaimed film Roma. It is one of those slow, methodical, detail oriented, art house types of film that speaks to me more than it does to my husband. When we went to bed last night, I couldn’t decide whether I liked it or not (my husband clearly decided that he did NOT like it), but I could not stop thinking about it. This morning I decided that I liked the movie and I still could not stop thinking about it. I would say that it was the deeper, more artistic, more “left for interpretation”, Mexican version of the movie, The Help.

What I took from the movie is that no matter how you define your relationships with the other people in your life, you cannot help but forge a deeper connection that goes beyond the definition of what that relationship is supposed to be. Roma depicts a year in the life of a privileged Mexican family in the 1970s, from the viewpoint of their devoted nanny. The family’s nanny, Cleo, has to balance taking care of every practical and emotional aspect of the various family members during a particularly difficult time in the family’s collective lives, and yet she still tries to find time to nurture and to deal with her own life’s happenings and sorrows. This movie reminded me of instances like when you are a kid, and you are utterly shocked to see your teacher in the grocery store. Or even when you are older and you are devastated to hear that a trusted leader or clergy member or even a friend or family member, is not that superhuman that you had built them up in your mind to be. Sometimes we all fall into the egocentric state of mind that everything and everyone in our lives, revolves around us. We forget that other people’s lives and problems and ways of seeing and dealing with instances, are every bit as complicated and difficult to navigate, as our own. And depending on their “starting point”, sometimes even more complicated and difficult than we can even comprehend.

sonder
n. the realization that each random passerby is living a life as vivid and complex as your own—populated with their own ambitions, friends, routines, worries and inherited craziness—an epic story that continues invisibly around you like an anthill sprawling deep underground, with elaborate passageways to thousands of other lives that you’ll never know existed, in which you might appear only once, as an extra sipping coffee in the background, as a blur of traffic passing on the highway, as a lighted window at dusk.
The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows

Fragile Like a Bomb

“She was not fragile like a flower, she was fragile like a bomb.” – Entity

I have four almost adult children. The first three are men and they are wonderful. My baby is my daughter and she is wonderful. It is an interesting time in history to be loving and molding and shaping both sexes. Yesterday the focus was on my daughter.

My daughter had her first high school tennis tournament yesterday. She is a freshman and she was ranked number one player for the Girls Team yesterday. She won her match. To say that I am proud of her and in awe of her, is an understatement. I’m a book nerd. My hand/eye coordination could easily be put under the category of clumsy. Her grace and strong athleticism is something that I can only marvel at and beam about. What I liked about her victory yesterday is that it wasn’t an angry, hostile, out to “show the world” triumph. If anything, it was a personal victory for her. She was able to rise above her nerves, her fears, her feelings of intimidation, to do her best, to be her best and to show up and win.

So many of today’s competitions seem to have such an angry component. I know that we still have a lot to overcome as women, as society in general, but still I love being a woman. I love the men in my life. I want my daughter to feel the same way. I want her to experience her victories in life as celebrations of her hard work and achievements, not as superior conquests born only out of anger and frustration. I suppose I have to ponder on what steps I can take now, as a woman, to help create the nurturing support system and cooperative atmosphere that I want my daughter to experience in her life. And then, as a woman, I suppose I have to ponder what steps I can take to help create that same kind of environment for my sons.

“The world needs strong women. Women who will lift and build others, who will love and be loved. Women who live bravely, both tender and fierce. Women of indomitable will.” – Amy Tenney

The King’s Crown

“My crown is called content, a crown that seldom kings enjoy.” – William Shakespeare

This is such an unusual time in life – a time when the “usual” is soon to be going by the wayside. My husband and I talked to our eldest son last night and he is considering offers within his company, in all different cities. His world is expanding significantly. I signed our youngest child up for Driver’s Education. Once a child gets their license to drive, drifting away from the nest becomes inevitable. I know, I’ve experienced this three times before. Our next to youngest child just committed to his college of choice for the fall. Our second son plans to stay at his university this summer, to continue earning credits and grades that will help him to enter into medical school. In short, my job of “corralling the kiddos” is soon to be going completely by the wayside. My husband and I have made our primary focus to be on the joint efforts of raising our family for almost 23 years now. The funny thing is that now, what seems to be all of the sudden, space is opening up for us, to take all of our lives, in all different directions.

My husband and I opted to do some updates and renovations on our current home, but we do it with some hesitation and reservation. Is this where we plan to live for a while? Our housing choices have always been made within the narrow confines of the areas that connected good public schools with a reasonable commute to my husband’s work. When your confines are removed, the choices almost become overwhelming.

To be honest, I’m having a really hard time figuring out what I want to do next, in so many aspects. I have been meditating on the next stage, my second half of adulting for a while now, and no real clear-cut answers are appearing. I’ve heard that when you don’t know what you want, doing nothing is a choice and often, doing nothing is a good option for the time being. I suspect being uncomfortable with the choice of doing nothing and making no real changes, feels uncomfortable for a lot of us. From little on, we are taught to strive, to achieve, to work towards our goals and to accomplish them. But, what if you are unsure of your goals? What if you don’t know what to strive for?

I got to thinking that not knowing what your goals are, may mean that you are content. “Content” often feels like a bad word, especially to us Americans. Society seems to tell us that you should always be aspiring to accomplish new heights, yet all of the best selling self-help books and podcasts on the market, seems to be aimed at helping people to find inner peace and calm, acceptance and contentedness with “what is.” Even Shakespeare knew that contentedness (an inside job) was so hard to achieve that even the wealthiest, most fortunate and powerful people of the times, the kings, often could not achieve contentedness.

When I was contemplating my new found “freedom” opening up to me in the very near future, a thought popped into my head. It was so strong that I had to write it down. This is what I wrote:

“Maybe I don’t know what I want because what I want, is what I have . . .”

Perhaps what I wrote is the definition of contentedness. According to Shakespeare, contentedness is the elusive treasure of kings. Perhaps the answer is to bask in that feeling of contentedness for a while. When the next big move is meant to happen for me, I’ll know what to do. In the meantime, I’ll just be content to be content.

“Now and then it’s good to pause in our pursuit of happiness and just be happy.” – coolnsmart.com

Blue-Eyed Baby

“The beautiful thing about learning is that no one can take it away from you. ” – B.B. King

Our youngest son found out that he got into his college of choice, yesterday. He’ll be attending the same large university that his brothers before him have attended. His brothers have enjoyed their experiences there and grown up and out, in so many remarkable ways. I excitedly anticipate the same for him.

It’s a story for another time, but I really thought that my youngest son was going to be our last baby. That was before we were blessed with our beautiful daughter. I savored my third son’s babyhood because of that reason. I remember rocking him and gazing at him, even more than my other children, mostly because in my mind, he was going to be the last that I experienced all of the baby milestones. I can still picture his little head and hands, as I rocked him to sleep.

My youngest son is my only blue-eyed child. I have brown eyes and my husband has green eyes. Our other three children have brown eyes. Being the third son and always looking up to, and feeling like he had to keep up with his older brothers, I looked for ways to make him feel extra-special and unique. I always made a big fuss of his blue eyes, calling him my “Blue-eyed Baby.” I guess that I took it too far because when he was about four or five years old, he said to me, “I think you are right, Mom. Blue-eyed people are better.” I had to backtrack on that, so I focused on this little birth mark that he has on the back of his dark hair. It is a spot on his hair that is white, looking like it has been intentionally bleached. I’ve always called it his “Angel Kiss.” I told him that the mark on his hair is where the angels kissed him before they gave him to me. I hope that the kissing guardian angels remain all around him when he leaves home to go to college. I want to know that my blue-eyed baby will always be protected no matter how far he roams from home.

“College is a refuge from hasty judgment.” – Robert Frost

I’m Motivated to Be Inspired

After watching history’s most boring Super Bowl last night and waking up to a gray Monday, I had difficulty deciding what to write about and even more difficulty getting the gumption up to write. It seems fitting that lately I have been pondering the difference between motivation and inspiration. Today seems like the right day to ponder it on-line.

Motivation typically comes from outside forces. You feel compelled to do something because something inside of you says that you “should” do it, or you may face consequences that you don’t want. Motivation comes from a reason or a “motive” for doing something, so that you get the result that you do want. Our sources of motivation are typically external. You are motivated to get a new car, so you go to work and save your money. You are motivated to fit into your new bikini, so you go to the gym. I am motivated to write this blog post, because I have made the promise to myself and to my readers that I will write a blog post every day.

Inspiration is internally generated. The word literally means, “in spirit.” When you are inspired, some internal passion is bubbling up inside of you just screaming to come out. Inspiration typically isn’t as concerned with “the end result”, as it is something that just wants to be created, for creation’s sake. After driving away from our eldest son’s first apartment, driving away from his completed childhood, and coming to the realization that the stage of my life, that was mainly focused on raising and molding four young children, will soon be coming to a close, I was inspired to start writing my blog. I was inspired to internally and publicly explore what this stage of life means to me and to my family.

My husband asked me an interesting question the other day. He said, “Would you rather be a beacon or an icon?” I answered “Beacon,” without pause, but that is mostly because I like living under the radar. I wouldn’t want to have to wear make-up to walk out to my mailbox, for fear of paparazzi jumping out of my bushes. I like a level of anonymity. Further, I liken beacons to be like lighthouses, and I like to think that my experiences, perceptions and lessons learned, could be helpful not just to me, but to others, as well. I think that today’s day and age has way too many icons and not nearly enough beacons.

Anyway, sometimes my blog posts are just coming from motivation to stay on track, keep my promises to myself and to others, and sometimes my blog posts are so inspired, that I have jumped out of bed to jot down my ideas and have panicked when my computer doesn’t boot up fast enough, as the words seem to be spilling from my heart at record speed. I imagine my readers are perceptive enough to see the difference. It would be ideal to live life in a state of constant inspiration, but for times when that passion lies dormant, motivation is enough force to keep the train moving on the tracks, until the next spurt of inspiration comes along.

That Was Fast

Today is my youngest son’s 18th birthday.  Out of my four children, I only have one baby who isn’t technically an adult.  I have three “adult children.”  I remember for years when older women would comment on my kids’ cuteness, I would politely ask them if they had children and they would say something like, “Yes . . . well I mean, they’re all grown up now.”  When you are in that younger mom stage of life, you never imagine that you’ll be that older mom stammering out an awkward answer to the question, “Do you have kids?”  Yet, now, I am that awkward older woman with four, mostly grown children.

I have even more compassion for that older mother now.  That older mother has seen a lot. She’s been through a lot of joys and sorrows, and hopes and fears.  She’s had experiences that she never imagined having,  raising those kids to adulthood.  She’s filled with pride, joy, amazement, relief, nostalgia and wonder.  She’s filled with hope, awe, curiosity and questions of what to do next. She thought that maybe when the kids were older, she wouldn’t feel so vulnerable, but she now has come to the wisdom that her heart is walking around on multiple sets of legs, and those legs are walking farther away, going on Life’s wild adventures, leaving her heart even more exposed than maybe it has ever been before.  

So now, when a sweet, beautiful, frazzled young mother politely asks me if I have children, I say, “Yes, I have four mostly grown-up children. And they are wonderful.  Enjoy and savor your babies.  They are your most amazing, miraculous co-creation with Life.”

Ginger Kids

My two eldest sons are redheads or what now seems to be more commonly called “gingers”.  My youngest two children are brunettes.  I sometimes break them down to the “reds” and the “browns.”  When you have a big family, you’re always shortening things, categorizing; it’s just easier that way.  My husband and I are both brunettes so we were a little bit surprised, at first when our first little ginger was born.

It turns out that both my husband and I carry the recessive gene for red hair.  It’s the only way a “ginger” can occur.  Only 2 percent of the world’s population are natural redheads. Unfortunately, there are thoughts that someday, due to the fact that the recessive gene could go extinct, red-headed people will be a thing of the past.  How sad that would be!  My sons both have brown eyes, but if you are a natural redhead with blue eyes, you have the rarest combination on the face of the earth.  How lovely and special!!

I’ve always been attracted to redheaded people since I was a little girl.  The fact was so obvious, that when I was a little girl, my mother cut out a magazine article featuring redheaded children and she wrote, “Your future kids . . . ” on top of the article.  She was right!  I think redheaded people just exude warmth!  It’s not just their hair, it’s their whole energy field.  They radiate a fiery passion that just glistens out to the ends of their hair reminding us of just how exciting life can be.

I read once that you can’t be anonymous and be a redhead.  I believe that.  I bet that there are very few redheaded spies.  My eldest son won the yearbook senior superlative, “Most Likely To Always Be Remembered.”  He’s 6’2″ with a headful of curly red hair and a big, deep, loud laugh.  We took our eldest son to Puerto Vallarta, Mexico when he was two and when we were touring the local town, the elderly women would come up to him to touch his hair for luck.   He happily obliged.  He knows that he is lucky.

When we are young we want to “fit in”, melt in with the crowd.  I think redheaded people are blessed in knowing that they just don’t “blend in,” right from the very beginning so they don’t ever get caught up in that nonsense of sameness.  Now that I’m 47, I think I feel more internally redheaded in that sense, than I ever have been.  I like being an individual.  I feel more confident “owning” who I am.  Of course, at my age, my real hair color has become a mystery thanks to the marvels of my stylist, but if I ever get bored, red might be the color to try.

If I Want To . . . .

My husband loves to quote Coach Willie Taggart, “The only difference between a good day and a bad day is your attitude.  So go have a great day if you want to!”  We repeat this quote a lot to each other and to our kids, especially on Mondays.  It’s a big responsibility to have a great day.  There are so many obstacles in the way.  Traffic, cranky people, an off-putting comment, an overflowing in-box, less than good sleep the night before, all seem to be roadblocks to the choice of having a great day.  That’s the key word, though, right?  Choice.  We choose how we look at traffic, cranky people, annoying comments, huge workloads and sleepiness.

In today’s world, sometimes it doesn’t feel cool to be Pollyanna.  You are almost expected to be cynical and sarcastic, if you want to be considered smart and “in the know.”  In the end though, what matters more?  How you perceive others to consider you to be or how you feel at the end of another precious day in your life?  Traffic can be turned into the blessing of having a car, and having forced alone time to think and contemplate and rest, in your car.  Cranky people can be a lesson in empathy and sending a silent prayer or blessing that connects you and the upset person to a force that holds both of you in the Highest of esteem.  Annoying comments can be a lesson in self awareness as to why the comment pricked us and could there be merit or a lesson in the thought, despite its unfavorable form of transport?  Huge workloads force us to prioritize and take tasks, methodically, one at a time.  I read once that we are all going to die with our in-boxes full.  Again, it is looking at things in a different perspective.  Sleepiness is just our bodies telling us to remember to prioritize our rest.  A quote I often think of is that your body is your soul’s address.  Be a good landlord.

I don’t think having a great day is always an easy task in our modern world.  But it is a task that I think is definitely worth pursuing.  So, thanks Coach, I will have a great day.  If I want to . . . .

I’ll Just Wear My Feet

For most of my adult life I’ve worn high heeled shoes.  In fact, I would get so many comments on that fact that I used to joke that I had Barbie doll feet, so they weren’t capable of going flat.  When I do wear flats, I feel like I’m walking funny.  My friend mimicked my flat shoe walk one time and it wasn’t cute.  Can you say “quack, quack”?

As I’m getting older though, the heels that I wear are definitely more of the wedge variety.  I’m in awe of the women who can walk around in the spiked heels without grimaces on their faces.  When the Taylor Swift concert was over the other night, we saw many women carrying their spiked heels as they hobbled out to their cars.  Our Uber driver commented on the fact that he’s never seen women make it through any wedding without losing their heels for the comfort of their feet. He’s right.  I’ve come home from more than one wedding or Christmas party and dumped my shoes into the garbage can before I even walked through the door to my house, vowing never to wear those shiny, pointy, expensive little torture devices strapped to nails, ever again.

When I was a teenager, I babysat for a little girl who when I would tell her to put her shoes on, she would politely say, “No thank you.  I’ll just wear my feet.”  She was on to something.  I love walking around in my bare feet.  I’m pretty sure that is mostly what nature intended.  I’m pretty sure that our feet weren’t designed to sustain the pressure of a 4 ton elephant standing on them.  Our feet don’t look anything like elephant feet.

I’m pretty sure down the line, high heeled shoes are going to be in the history books of shameful practices imposed on women, like the Chinese foot binding.  I don’t think high heels are necessarily imposed on us, though.  We like how we look when walk in them.  We like the extra height and the extra wiggle it gives to our rears.  Today’s feminism seems to be very much a Helen Gurley Brown’s Cosmopolitan oriented feminism. It says I’ll look as sexy as I want to look, but while I’m wearing these 4″ heels and long, fake eyelashes, I will also run this organization like nobody’s business, I will tell this news story and interview this sports star with “no hold back” brazenness,  and I’ll stand up for my personal space and dignity with a big black #.  You can look, but don’t touch boys, unless I say you can.

As an older, more conservative woman, I have to admit that I have mixed feelings on my perceptions of today’s feminism.  Having a loving husband and three kind sons, makes me more sensitive to the male point of view than I have ever been in my life and I don’t want my daughter to think that her value comes from her looks.  That being said, when I’m not just “wearing my feet”, I love strapping on a new pair of gorgeous, girly, glittery, elevated shoes in anticipation of good times ahead.  I’m not even sure that there is any kind of statement or meaning or manipulation tied to wearing them, at least consciously.   I think it is just a matter of feeling fine and knowing that I can take them off whenever I want.