“Cover me in sunshine…”

“Cover me in sunshine
Shower me with good times
Tell me that the world’s been spinning from the beginning
And everything will be alright
Cover me in sunshine”

–Pink

(Note: Written in on January 9th. The day we dropped “Sunshine” off at airport.)

I am a big Pink fan girl. Ok, not the belong to her fan club, follow her tour fan girl, but I realized about two years ago that most of my old iTunes playlists had Pink in heavy rotation. She now makes Spotify top 5 annually. So, naturally when this song came out a year ago, with everything we were and still are managing during this pandemic–I loved it.

It also spoke to me as I was watching my youngest manage grief…again. A few years ago, she lost a a childhood friend, Anna, to suicide, about four months after another classmate/friend was killed in a murder-suicide by her father. The next couple of years she lost two more classmates to suicide and it sadly became almost an annual event. What I learned as a mom during the first death? I don’t know how to help a grieving kid.

I like to think I’m empathetic–I try to feel what she is feeling, but I had my own fears and grief to manage. I was friends with Anna’s parents through our kids’ activities together, I was trying to understand what they were going through, and processing it as a mom, not as my daughter. With Anna’s death, I don’t know, I went into survival mode. Go to school, make life normal, comfort when crying, but try to establish normal. I had NO idea what that normal looked like and all I wanted was my girl to be ok. I was completely unprepared for her outbursts. The night before the last day of that school year she was inconsolable, she just realized that Anna and Brooklyn would never have those days again. I hugged and comforted her, but I didn’t realize how much she was changing with each loss.

My husband and I have always called her our “sunshine and butterflies” girl. She was born cheerful and as a young child, she adapted to every situation with her big eyes and dimples leading the way. She woke up happy and temper tantrums were few and far between. (I have photos of most of them because they were actually cute.) Even in elementary school, she didn’t struggle with changes like moving to new schools or making friends too badly. We had a few things here and there, but overall, she was resilient.

What started to happen over these past few years? Anxiety. She tended to be more nervous about uncertain situations, insomnia more often. Nothing that really triggered me to get her help until her senior year of high school when college was looming and things were becoming more sleepless and more anxious. She went to counseling a few times, but again, her call on if she felt it was helping and she said she was “Fine.” To be honest, she was ok, and just needed to work through whatever it was.

Fast-forward to this past fall–she’s survived a wild freshman year. By “wild” I don’t mean parties and crazy, because well after she got over homesickness and adjusted to school, she got sent home for five months due to pandemic. The same wild we are all surviving.

She moved back to school, moved into an apartment with three girls she friended the one semester she had been at school and they all get hit with a mild case of Covid-19, which, in a way, bonded them, all is well, then boom.

Her roommate’s older brother and his girlfriend die suddenly over Thanksgiving–another suicide. It is horrible for her friend and her family. And while she is trying to be there for her friend–it starts to bring back the grief and buried feelings.

A month later, a young man she is friends with, and one of her cousin’s best friends dies in his sleep. While she was just a ‘SnapChat’ friend with him, and hung out with him with the group every time she was there–it hit her hard. Devastatingly hard. She goes from bubbly and social to staying in her room getting homework done and good grades (a positive!) but isolating from her friends and becoming fearful of going out. She’s easily agitated on phone calls to home and when she’s close to her ‘cycle’ omg…tears and fears of everyone hating her, and more isolation. I encouraged her during this time to get counseling, see a doctor, but she insisted she was fine and in the big scheme of things, she probably wasn’t too horrible, but she was not my sunshine. It is hard to support and coach her with her being an 8 hour drive away, but I do my best.

Finally, late in her spring semester she sets up her annual physical to update her medications. I suggested she discuss with her new physician not only her physical things, but the anxiety issues as well. She did tell her physician what she was feeling, and included some of my observations. After some discussion, they decided it was time to try medication. She is now on a low dose antidepressant that has worked wonders. The sunshine is back, things aren’t SO HARD and she’s thriving again. Now, I know that medications don’t work the same for everyone, but this is one time I can safely say…it worked. So well in fact, I followed her lead and asked my own physician later in the summer. That will be covered later…but wow, so helpful.

Coping artwork!

Does she still grieve the loss of her friends? Yes. She had an Anna dream just a few nights ago as she was preparing to leave for her study abroad. Just a casual dream and she felt good that morning–calling it “a nice visit.” She has a brighter outlook on her life and is on her way to Europe now–trying out something new. She was horribly anxious as we awaited her departure today, but we know she will be ok. She knows she will be overwhelmed, and she knows the first month could be limited to a small area in Brussels due to the continued pandemic, but she knows she has meds to help her manage. She has learned to cope with painting and writing as well. If she gives herself time…the sun will stay shining.

For auld lang syne…

(Originally written in early January 2021–before inauguration) Ok, as usual, I have not kept up with this blog. In fact, I cannot believe how much the world has changed since I was lamenting about life as a new empty-nester, living part-time in Florida. I can vividly remember walking the beach listening to my favorite news podcast reporting on this virus in Wuhan, China. “Wow, that sucks for them. Hope it is just like H1N1 a few years ago…”

OMG. Well, within weeks both kids were home and we were a full nest again. With baggage.

Like many people, our kids moved home, anxiety was rampant, toilet paper was rationed, and puzzles were the new normal. We ate more dinners together as a family than we had the previous 23+ and had more nights together as a couple than we had since we started dating 30+ years ago.

Looking back, I remember initially being grateful to have everyone home and selfishly having them all to myself for a brief moment. Then, as the days wore on, our spring break plans cancelled and it was obvious the pandemic was NOT going anywhere, the true anxiety and fear took hold.

My son, just starting out, was pondering moving home in the summer to ‘reset’ his life. This was a good decision, and likely would have happened, but when the pandemic hit, he packed up and hustled home. “Toss your food and pack your shorts for spring break.” –had been my instructions to him. Two months later, his dad and he went back to his apartment to move him back permanently. He was wounded, anxious, sad and not mentally healthy about any of it.

My daughter, was just hitting her stride as a college freshman. She had had a rough start fall term, homesick, sad–wanting to move home or transfer. Over the course of the holidays and beginning of second semester, she rushed a sorority, realized she DID have friends and was blossoming. When we visited her on our way home from our month away, she was happy. Three days later she was sent home.

My husband, always on the road, took his last trip on Feb 26 and has not travelled for work since. My guess is that he will go a full year without business travel. At first, we weren’t sure how to function without him planning a trip, even though he (briefly) retired a few years ago, it was just our rhythm to have him out a few days a week. On our way back from Florida, we had discussed a few of the new house projects that “might not be done by football season” like our basement bar, mudroom, etc. All were done by April 1.

As for me, I work in social media for a large healthcare company, my life exploded in the first few weeks, and honestly, I didn’t think about the actual pandemic until about June. I was on endless conference calls and completely stressed out. My project was making masks and donating them to anyone who would take them. I worked a full day, then sewed for a few hours every night. Stress relief.

Now? How are we?

Well, to begin, we have been fortunate to have only been lightly grazed by the virus. One close family member had it in May for a week, and our daughter was one of the thousands of college kids to get it upon returning to campus in August. Scary, but fine.

My son is recovering from a long hard summer of mental health issues. Would he have struggled without the pandemic? Absolutely, but I think it would have been one therapy session a week, not two. He is learning to manage and we are seeing him emerge slowly. He sings again, he is getting productive, and starting to plan for his future. I think he now is seeing the light at the end of the tunnel and he believes us when we tell him it is NOT a train.

My daughter is back at school and doing well academically and socially. But, the anxiety is still there. She struggles with sleep and can have a little depression. We’ve flown her home to regularly to keep her balanced. Over the holidays, her roommate lost her brother tragically, and a good friend passed away in his sleep just before New Year’s. More on that later, but just when I think we’re turning a corner–there is a bus.

As for us, I don’t know. We are doing well as a couple, but none of this is easy. Working from home together has been interesting. I’ve moved from our main office upstairs to a ‘bunker’ in our basement.

What is next?

Well, we will have a new president. God willing. I will refrain from getting political again, but safe to say–this brings me a little hope. Vaccines are out, and being bungled in the delivery, but yes, hopeful that we will get a hold on this in Q1.

Like everyone, I just want it to stop. I want my life to begin again. I want my parents safe, my father-in-law safe, my son to find his career passion fulfilled, my daughter to have a normal college career–and my husband and I to go somewhere alone again.

Ok 2021, I have low expectations, but am willing to work with you on this. We’ll wear our masks, keep our distance and will stay home, but please…do better.

For auld lang syne, my dear,
for auld lang syne,
we’ll take a cup of kindness yet,
for auld lang syne.

Roam if you want to…

In my last post a few months ago, we were in the process of moving. Thankfully, that is behind us. We’ve got our furniture in the house—and nothing matches, it looks like our first apartment—and the boxes are tucked away for another day. I lamented in the last post about leaving our old house and how things were changing. It was tough. I am not going to lie. I’ve (of course) cried a few times. And while it still stings a little, if I think about it, I never realized how good this all would be.

This freedom. The less expensive house, utilities, taxes…everything seems just LESS, and it has allowed us to jump start our traveling dream.

Our dream when we first got married was to have kids and be able to retire by the time we were 55 (or so). Well, life happened and my husband (sort of) retired at 52, but we weren’t really ready to golf or live in a retirement community and we still have a kid in college. So, he has a new job and I’m still content in my career; however neither of us need to be IN our office to work. We can work anywhere.

So, here I am. Working from a cottage in Florida for two weeks. Next week, a little further north in the state, then…who knows? We’re still figuring it out.

Don’t get me wrong. I love Minnesota winters—the beautiful new snow, the frigid temps that are our badge of honor each year (“I survived -35F ON the LAKE!” Facebook post pops into my memories each year.), the trees glistening after a freezing fog, and elusive sun dogs are awesome.

But, yeah…

I seem to only enjoy all of these things for about 6 weeks. From about Thanksgiving through the new year, and then it can be spring at any time. I don’t just get cabin fever, but actually show symptoms of seasonal affective disorder. Our January this year about did me in. No sun for about 10 days in a row, and when it did finally emerge, it still was not enough to get Vitamin D levels in a ‘friendly zone.’

So, here I am. My husband is maintaining his usual insane travel schedule, but our home base is a cottage near a beach. I’m alone, running the beach (yes, I’ve re-started running!) in the morning and walking another part of the beach after I work at night. I’ve caught up on my usual podcasts and am now listening to new ones. My WiFi keeps me on my normal work schedule and it isn’t vacation. I love it.

Do I miss being the mom of two busy teenagers? Yes. Absolutely yes. Do I miss having them with us? Solid maybe. We will have spring break with them in a few weeks, and I am excited for that, but for now, adjusting to this life? I’m doing just fine!

I am calling this “phase one” of our nomad empty nest life. We’ve just started phase 2 (week 3) at another beach. Next week will be a little further north still, in another AirBnB in North Carolina.  I’ll share our key learnings at the end.

 

Our house…

Is a very, very, very fine house…

We’re moving.

This is not something we have not done before, in fact, for a few years there we were practically pros at it. We moved 2 times in 3 years, 3 times if you count a rental house in between house four and five. This is our sixth house in 27 years of marriage, so we know what we’re doing. Or do we?

This is the first house that we’re not upgrading, nor are we being moved by a company since our second house. No, we’re downsizing and moving about 3 miles across our little town. The house I’m leaving IS my dream house. It is gorgeous and wonderful and everything I’ve wanted since I was a little girl. Our next house is a fine house and little girl me would have been impressed had she NOT SEEN THIS HOUSE. EVER.

No, this move is closing a chapter, ending an era, and is the right move for us as a couple. Our kids are moving on, with one just out of college and one just entering. We’ll lessen our financial burden, both mortgage and utilities, less upkeep as it is a villa with an HOA that manages yard and snow. We can leave for a month and not worry about it. For the money, we can rent and go and do, yada yada yada.

But, then…

My daughter was 8 (under 5 ft apparently) and son 11 (and just over 5 ft!) when we moved in. Most of their formative years were here. When we bought the house, my daughter voted for it because it had “princess arches” in the front—perfect for posing before a dance recital, homecomings and proms. Which we did many times over the next 11 years.

The rooms were beautiful and well-lit. My husband made amazing storage beds for the kids so they could display their favorite things, and created more space in their rooms. Those beds were sold this past week, to a beautiful little blonde girl and the other to a friend of mine for his child.

The sunroom where we drank our coffee and read the weekend paper, where my mom always read when she visited and then confessed ‘what was really going on back home’ to me every time.

I know, from experience, that we will make new memories and have great times in the new house. It will be different, because it will be just us, and while we are making spaces for the other two, nothing is as permanent.

Now, as I finish writing this, we’re officially moved. I’m struggling to find places for all the s*…stuff I’ve, no WE’VE accumulated. We’ve found about three years worth of paper products for parties, cleaning supplies and even more randomly–foaming hand soap. Who knew?

The worst is over, like any breakup, we’ve said our good-byes and are just collecting the rest of our random stuff. We’ll have to meet the new owners at the closing–and like a good break-up, while we know it is for the best, it still hurts a little bit.

At some point, we’ll be able to visit, but likely never go back inside. In my head, I know it is just a house, but in my heart, it is no longer mine and will belongs to someone else.

History has its eyes on you

“Let me tell you what I wish I’d known
When I was young and dreamed of glory
You have no control

Who lives, who dies, who tells your story

I know that we can win
I know that greatness lies in you
But remember from here on in

History has its eyes on you” 

Written by Lin-Manuel Miranda

(Cue my kids’ eye roll–“Gawd…Mom, a Hamilton reference again?” It’s a thing with me.)

Next week, I will be taking part in my first-ever political march, protest, whatever you want to call it.  Yep, almost half-century old and I’m getting all rebellious.

Mid-life crisis? Maybe.

My “change” is coming?

Nah. I’m just pissed.

The election over the past 2 years made me angsty.  I wouldn’t say I was a Clinton supporter, though I would love to see a female president in my lifetime, but I really got nervous by the rhetoric, comments and posts I read over the length of the campaign.

I was hoping that once it was all over, things would calm down and the posts would cease.

I was wrong.

His late night ALL CAPS tweets are headlines at least once a week, usually condemning someone or still shooting down his opponents.  Nothing that says ‘come together.’

Recently, one of the best ‘triple-threat’ actresses (arguably THE best) of our time used her award platform to address the situation. Yeah, I’m torn whether I give a rat’s patootie about a celebrity’s political opinion, but what one thing she said struck a chord with me:

“It was that moment when the person asking to sit in the most respected seat in our country imitated a disabled reporter, someone he outranked in privilege and power and the capacity to fight back. It, it kind of broke my heart when I saw it and I still can’t get it out my head because it wasn’t in a movie. It was real life. And this instinct to humiliate when it’s modeled by someone in the public platform, by someone powerful, it filters down into everybody’s life because it kind of gives permission for other people to do the same thing. 

Disrespect invites disrespect. Violence incites violence. When the powerful use their position to bully others, we all lose.”

You see, he reminds me of those people I detested during my school years.  Privileged, bloated, big ego, entitled–the ones who made fun of my Sears’ bicycle with one brake (it was a fine bike too), or sized me up and down to see what label I was wearing, or made fun of my instant geekdome in 5th grade (braces, glasses and bad perm–all in 3 weeks).  Yeah, my own issue at the time, and I was likely too sensitive, but the feelings are what you remember.

He also reminded me of those guys in college who would say I was beautiful as they handed me another beer–and cornered me later only to be pissed that I was able to resist in my haze.  No, I never had anything THAT bad happen (thank you Jesus) in college, but it was always that type of dude.  Entitled, smarmy and downright creepy.

As I raised my own kids, with a bit more affluence than I had as a kid, I refused to let them think they were entitled to anything.  Both my husband and I have worked on confidence, kindness and standing up for others.  Have we succeeded? The jury is still out on that, but we’ve made progress.

Name calling?  No. That made mama’s head spin–they will tell you that. Likewise, I also never teased them with name calling (I teased them in other ways!) because what does that do to a person’s self-confidence?  It erodes it. I hated that as a kid.  “Scaredy cat!” still pierces my risk-adverse brain.

I also enforced that while we don’t live in a diverse area, there is diversity in the world and it needs to be embraced.  There are people with different skin, belief systems, and some people love the same sex–who cares?  Everyone is different.  Stereotypes? Gross generalizations?  Yeah, I’m sure they saw some from me, I’m not perfect, but I have worked hard to not enforce those things.

So, as I heard the rhetoric out of our next-President’s mouth over the past two years, my blood started to boil.  Everything, I worked so hard to enforce in my home and protect my kids from, was being spewed daily:

Making fun of a female candidate’s looks.

Building a wall. Making it seem like all Mexicans were drug dealers and rapists.

Calling all muslims’ “terrorists” or feeding that fear in his tweets.

Making fun of a disabled man’s actions.

A sexist remark about an attractive woman.

Calling another candidate a derogatory name.

Disrespecting a high profile veteran who was a POW.

All of those things.

This was coming from someone who will be listed in your kid’s Scholastic book club order form–“Our President.”  Who is the one you point to about as a role model.  So, I wanted a president who wants to serve our country with respect and dignity.  Someone who, even though it is the most powerful job on earth, could be humble and kind as well.

Compassion–something I have yet to see in any tweet or interview or rally.

We could have someone who could possibly unify a nation so divided–racially, economically, religiously.  Could Hillary have done it?  No, not likely, we are way too messed up. But this? This?

“Disrespect invites disrespect. Violence incites violence.” 

Instead, we have someone who just stirs the pot of hate stew and serves it up with a big side of ego.

“If something needs fixing, lace up your shoes and do some organizing.” – President Obama

So, on January 21, I am marching in the Women’s March on Washington, with women–moms, daughters, and friends to let him know we are watching him and this administration.  We are watching to protect our kids, our friends who are Muslim, our friends who are immigrants, our friends (family) who are children of immigrants, our friends who are transgender or other sexual orientation, our aging parents, our friends who are a different color, our kids with special needs and those who struggle to make ends meet because health care decimates their budget every month.

This leads me back to the Hamilton song.  The eyes on me right now are my kids.  I want them to not just listen to my complaints, or see my tweets and speeches about how this “isn’t normal” and “we can’t treat people this way.”  I want them remember that their mom took action and got involved.

I am lacing up and I am marching to say “History has it’s eyes on you Mr. Trump and Congress.  We hope you do well by EVERYONE.”

Rise Up.

–Peace

Like a bridge over troubled waters

“When you’re weary, feeling small
When tears are in your eyes, I’ll dry them all (all)
I’m on your side, oh, when times get rough
And friends just can’t be found
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will lay me down
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will lay me down”

Words & Music: Simon & Garfunkel

Update: I wrote this in mid-October–just now posting as it was too difficult for me edit then.

“I have to tell you something,” I was driving my mother-in-law Sharon, from our happy hour outing with our husbands to pick up McDonald’s for my kids–a little must-have so we could escape for an hour for just adults.  “I think I’m losing it. I’m serious. I am struggling to follow conversations.” She started to cry.  I had no idea how to react, as I truly suck at these types of things, just wanted to say “Um…where’s Tim? Manage this please.”  Unfortunately, we had not ordered the reward dinner yet and I had another 8-10 minutes in the car with her.  I was designated counselor.

She went on to explain that she felt out of it lately, and how she just was not just distracted, but forgetting things and losing track of her thoughts.  I had noted she was quiet while we had a couple of drinks, and would stare a bit off in the distance.  While she was usually extremely chatty and animated, it wasn’t too far off from her personality–if you had her in front of a television with knitting needles, she would do the distant stare.  The conversation ended with me recommending she discuss with a more clinical expert in our family–her daughter, to get her into an exam.

The next several weeks and months uncovered other health issues, but there was dementia noted.  It took a backseat to her rheumatoid arthritis and subsequent lymphoma over the next few years, and she went on a medication to slow the progression of the disease.  My father-in-law Jim kept sharing on visits how she was changing–just more forgetful, and doing silly things, like trying to dial the phone with the cable remote–channels flipping while my husband was watching, and her saying “What is wrong with this phone?”  Even with those stories, I was convinced she would be like my grandmother and just end up in a facility when she was 85.

Then about three years ago, we got a call from Jim.  She got lost coming home from the grocery store.  Trust me, this woman KNEW where that store was, because what is now known as a early indication of the disease–she shopped constantly at all of the local markets and was ready for armageddon in her freezer and pantry. However, the disease was progressing and he had to go get her to help direct her home. The keys were taken away.

When we visited during the next year, we tended to see her at her most lucid, and still were in a bit of denial that it was progressing. We would notice that Jim was doing more making dinner, appointments and managing their calendars, but again, seemed workable.  She could still carry on a conversation fairly well, and had her sense of humor. Jim would always say, “It is getting worse.”  It wasn’t that we didn’t believe him, but we didn’t really SEE it.

Then we did.

Last June, during my son’s graduation party, they came and stayed during the “Family Invasion 2015”–my in-laws, parents, sister-in-law, two nieces, brother-in-law and his girlfriend and her son–all stayed at my house, and she completely crumbled.  Crumbled–not in an emotional mess, but slept endlessly, and when she was up, she was so out of it, it was scary. She never said any of our names, and told her daughter–“Beautiful girls you have there.”  However, those two girls were my nieces, from my brother, and not hers. It was obvious to us at this time that Jim was right–she had changed.

This winter, we visited them in Florida.  We could tell, she had no idea who my son or I were.  We were gone.  We were prepared that it might happen, her daughter told us that a month prior, she had told her that she had a man sleeping in her bed, but she figured he was ok, since Deb thought he was ok.  That was Jim.  At times, she seemed to know him, but he was losing her.  So, when we saw her–I knew I’d be one of the first to go.  She hugged me tight like a girlfriend, but she wasn’t hugging me–her daughter-in-law of 23 years. Just someone she assumed was a friend.

Now, we are all gone and she thinks she’s visiting her home.  She wants to go ‘home’ so badly, she has been caught recently in the garage looking for her car–while carrying a handful of shoes.  She told me, very coyly, on my last visit, “This is all I’ve got for clothes, but I’m only here for the night.” She’s just visiting.

Well, after today, she will be.

Today, after months of navigating the Medicare/Medicaid system, my husband and sister are moving her into a memory care facility.  Jim can’t do it. He’s watched this awful disease take his wife, partner of over 50 years, and best friend slowly, every day, away from him.

This is the “for worse” in those wedding vows, not the argument about who gets up with the baby, or the fact he spent $500 at the hardware store, or when you cannot decide whose career leads–those are the minor daily things.

This.

This is the “for worse.”  This is being the bridge, the comfort, the peace–when you don’t even know the person anymore or she doesn’t know you.  Because you know that no matter what–you said you’d lay yourself down to protect that person. This is what is best. This is what is best for both of them, for all of us.

But it sucks and it just is almost over.

God speed my dear husband…I’ll be your bridge when you get home.

–Peace

Lost in your own life

“I want you to know,
You’re never alone
You’ll always have a place to go
It’s on a brighter side

I’ll color your night
I’ll lead you to light
Put hope inside that you can find

You don’t have to be lost,
Lost in your own life”

A few years ago, this very short-lived ABC Family series Ruby & the Rockets came on the air. The only redeeming feature of this silly sitcom was this song.  I used it for the end of a video I made from footage that my then 8 year-old daughter took at her first year of day camp. It seemed kind of sweet and upbeat. I didn’t really pay that close attention to the words, and like a lot of music I select for these projects–it just felt right.

In the video, you’ll see a bunch of adorable girls, all getting ready for 3rd grade, learning to ride horses, make crafts, singing stupid songs and being silly.

Now, not quite eight years later, one of them is gone.

It hardly seems possible, but one of these sweet girls took her own life this past weekend, after bravely struggling with depression for a few years.

The girls giggling and making goofy faces in this video are now heartbroken.

Lost in their own lives.

Wondering what more they could have done to have made her happier, eased her pain.

The answer is too complicated.

While she was on this earth, they had all grown apart. Some are in the “popular” group at school, others have transferred to other schools, some, stayed close and others tried.  They could see she was hurting and tried to say hi in the hallway, but maybe not often enough.

I am now longing for the girls in this video and in the photo below.  I want to see the giggly carefree faces, not the sad eyes I’ve been looking at all week.  Growing up is hard enough, but losing a friend so suddenly, with so many questions–is life changing.

It isn’t their fault.  The pain was too deep to reach her.  Her parents are loving, involved and did everything to make her well, but they couldn’t reach her. Her other family and friends also tried to reassure her that she was an amazing and loved kid, but that didn’t work either. No, not our girls fault, not the family’s, her close friends, not hers–just the evil cancer of depression.

So, what next?

I’ve been reading about Project Semicolon and it is their goal to help others “believe that this is not the end but a new beginning.”  That message, is what I’m sharing with my daughter.  This is the time to grow, mature and learn.

The other day, I was running and this same song somehow came on my playlist.  (not my usually playlist!) I listened to the words and started crying as I ran.  I realized this needs to be these girls’ anthem as they move through the rest of high school.

“I want you to know,
You’re never alone
You’ll always have a place to go
It’s on a brighter side”

Learn that if you see someone hurting, check in with her, send a goofy photo, say hi. If you are really worried, ask a parent, alert someone.

Learn that your actions at school and on social media affect those around you. Your words, your icy glare, mean SnapChat, texting insults and even cold shoulder can cut someone to the core. You have no idea what burdens your friends might be carrying that day/month/year.

Learn that if you go into that “cave” of depression, there are people that love and want to help. Ask for it. Reach out to someone.

As a parent, I’m still growing too.  Take a moment and talk to your kids. Heck, it might be a text, but sometimes, that’s when they talk.  Take them in the car for errands, and start a conversation–the passenger seat is also known as the ‘confessional’ in my house.  No need to look each other in the eye, so amazing things have been learned in my car.

Check in, take a pulse.  I have no answers, but I know I cannot get the giggly carefree girl back just yet, so I’m going to keep checking and reminding her that she’s never alone.

–kz

 

 

 

It’s been one week…ok three weeks…

I saw the Barenaked Ladies in a small concert last week for a conference I was attending.  I realized as they sang “One Week” how I had forgotten to update my blog on how the BIG good-bye went.  (I realize I have little to no readers on this thing, but I am certainly entertained by reading my old posts.  Online diary of sorts.)

Anyway, it went amazingly well.  The ‘bear’ returned on schedule and actually was more of a ‘teddy’ bear that week.  A lot of sentimental moments with his sister–dancing to “Watch me whip…” spontaneously in our dining room was my personal highlight.

The night before we left, I made him one of his favorite dinners–roast turkey with mashed potatoes/gravy.  We kept joking it was the night before his execution.  “Your last meal son…”

That night we got the car packed and the bean bag chair strapped to the roof wrapped in large garbage bag–we affectionately referred to it as the giant ‘burrito’ the next day (it cost us about 6 mpg on the way there)–then his buddies and the girls all came over for one last bonfire.  It was HIS night, not ours.  He gave us dinner and a few hours with him, but then, it was about him.  It was sweet seeing them all sit there and laughing.  Their lives were all about to change and they were supporting each other as each one left.

The drive down was a typical family car ride–the kids buried in their devices for the most part, then they would get restless and ridiculously silly.  At one point, I could NOT wait to get there, they were so annoying.

Then it hit.

We saw our first metro-Milwaukee sign, the kids were goofing around and suddenly got silent.  I glanced back to see them, heads together with tears streaming down their faces.  I quickly turned back, put my sunglasses on and tried desperately to think about…ANYTHING.  I never expected to see THAT.  Within five minutes it was over, and they went back to their respective electronics.

After the move-in, we headed to the hotel.  (more on the setting up a loft bed at another time…holy…) We came back the next morning with a television and DVD player for the room and then said our good-byes.

It hit again.

The final hug was had and I quickly left the building with my sunglasses on again. The weird thing was, even though I was upset and sad–it felt right.  A few days later, I read a blog by Ann Handley about taking her daughter to college and she put it perfectly, “Somehow this felt ok. It felt right.” and I completely related to it.  After 18 years. It was ok.

Now, three weeks later, we are keeping in touch via text and a few calls.  Conversations are typically short in nature, usually because he needs help with something or needs to share something quick.  The random text messages make my day.  Just weird things like he did in high school, about how a professor sounds like an actor, etc.  I know he’s having fun, and also completely stressing out about his courses–all good things.

I don’t pine over the fact he’s not at home.  I miss the singing, the random impersonations, and I miss our talks. I worry about him: I’m worried he’s too intense, but I’m worried if he lets up, he’ll slack. (Yeah, there is no in-between with this kid) Normal things. I don’t focus on his absence as much as I thought I would.  I have his sister to manage, my job, his father.  I’m getting through.

I realized a week ago that this was the first time I had been away from him for over a week, ever.  Like, since conception.

Yep, it hit again.

But once again, I’ll get through.

It’s the final countdown

A week from tomorrow it happens.

He moves away to college.

Today was the trial run as we took him to the airport for a trip to see his grandparents for a few days. It was his request after working all summer.  A few days with his grandparents and a quick visit to see my brother.

I felt a little sick inside as we pulled up to the airport, I only get three-four days with him after he returns.  Those days, based on our final moments as he left today, will be stress-filled.  We will be busy getting him ready with his possessions and his head will be already in Milwaukee, anticipating what the next week will bring.  Stress.

When will it just hit? I need to plan for it.

It all hasn’t hit me yet.  Yes, I get teared up when I read all the blogs my friends are posting on letting kids go.  My current funny favorite is the 12-signs-your-kid-is-leaving-for-college blog.  I identify with at least half of them–#1 for sure–about counting the days until he leaves as thought it were an execution or death sentence. It is funny and I like to try to laugh about it right now.  Rob Lowe’s blog about taking his oldest to school makes me cry every time.  The description of wrapping up his son in his sheets like a burrito the night before they left made me gasp in sobs.  My husband has done this with our kids, and I began picturing the last night with him–I read it a year ago, and I can’t bring myself to read it now.

For the most part, I’ve entered master planner mode, trying to go through the lists of what he needs and trying to mentally pack the car with everything.  I have no idea how we will fit everything, and since he will be 6+ hours away, we will not be able to just down there to bring something.  Being in the planner mode is a sense of comfort to me–it’s what I do.  It’s what I’ve done since I was 27 weeks pregnant, stuck in a hospital trying to keep him inside until he was fully “cooked”, but also trying to outfit a nursery and collect baby clothes.  I couldn’t control the outcome, but I could cross-stitch Tweetie bird on a receiving blanket and a onesie to bring my baby home in.  It was a sense of control. I made lists of things I needed, and mentally planned how I would quickly ready everything once I was “sprung” from my jail-like hospital room.  Now, I feel I’m doing the same.

Then, in my quiet moments, it hits a little bit very slowly.  The other day I got teared up as I folded laundry.  For whatever reason, he went through an extraordinary amount of underwear in our weekly load last week and I was quietly cursing it.  Then, it hit–he’ll be folding his own in a few weeks. Shit. I won’t be doing it. Shit. Shit.

And today, a friend posted a blog from her friend, and it described how much more quiet the house is as your kids leave.  It got me thinking about all the songs I’ve heard over the years from “Joseph” to “Legally Blonde” (never heard Urinetown–he had a lead so wanted to surprise us with the music)…”I’ve got a chip on my shoulder…” (I still know the full chorus of that–4 years later) The random movie conversations, quotes, his weekly impersonation round-up of favorite characters, teachers, classmates, people at the gas station…all those things that were noise before, will be silence.

Yes, he will return, but on a weekend visit, it’ll be hard to get to that comfort level of singing through the house.  I am certain we will get an impersonation round-up of his professors and roommates, but it will be different.  I guess I’ll be ok with different.

Just hit already.

Then, there are the shoes.

Shoes.  The other night he had his buddies over for one last “Halloween” viewing in our basement.  8 pairs of shoes scattered in my foyer, a common site these past 7 years.  The shoes have been just a pair to a peak of about 100 during a cast party last fall.  In Minnesota, it is kind of common to remove your shoes as you come into a house, so it is standard to have shoes scattered.  I will have shoes again as my daughter is just entering high school, but I doubt the common size will be a men’s 13. (If it is, we have much bigger problems.)  As I was tripping over the shoes the other night, I actually chuckled about not complaining about it.  Ah well, I’ll miss those in a week.

For now, I’m going to safely return to planner mode and try to enjoy him when he returns from his visit.  It will be a challenge for sure. He’ll be a bear because he’s nervous and we’ll be frustrated because he’s a bear.

At least I can plan for that.

A little diddy about Jack & Diane…growing up in SnapChat land

Oh yeah, life goes on
Long after the thrill of livin’ is gone
Say a
Oh yeah, life goes on
Long after the thrill of livin’ is gone
They walk on

–John Mellencamp

So, Jack and Diane–I always imagined them from my parents era of the early 60s, running around in late 50s vintage Chevys and Fords.  They likely had only ONE home phone, and it was a party line, and I do not mean “par-tay…woot!” I mean it was a shared neighborhood line.  I can’t even explain it fully, beyond my comprehension. (see link above)   He had to actually talk to her, or through friends.  They may have passed notes in school, but those were easily intercepted by teachers and other friends. The courage that poor boy must have had to muster to do such a thing. This was how I pictured these poor dating fools.

For me, growing up, we had a ‘touch-tone phone” and had more than one.  (not rich, but my dad was all about convenience) When I got to my teen years, some of my friends started getting their OWN phones that was separate from their parents’ and IN their ROOMS.  How I wanted the same! My parents would not concede to my own line, but I did get this discount store phone installed in my room, and later “call-waiting” was added to our line to keep the family peace.  Hours were now spent on the phone with friends, and if I was lucky…a BOY would call.  He might not have had the courage to talk to me in school, but he could call and hide behind the phone line.  (We’ll cover my lack of this happening in another blog…but it did a few times).

Boys in the 80s-90s were able to pine after a girl at school, then go home, look her number up in the phone book, and call her.  Of course, the worst that could happen would be that her dad would answer, ask who was calling (Oh no!) and when the girl was told who it was, there was some sort of awkward “I’m sorry kid, but she’s washing her hair.”  Momentary humiliation, but short-lived.

Courting in a connected age

Today, this dating thing has transformed.  I’ve watched my kids conduct a young ‘relationship’ on their phones. A few years ago, it was all text messages–my oldest had a little girlfriend in middle school, they did actually sit near each other at lunch a few times, but mostly it was messaging in the evenings.  It went on while we were on a cruise one spring break, where he was all so faithful at age 13, and we allowed him one text exchange when we docked in Mexico.  It all ended very unceremoniously when the girl dumped him via a text message, while we waited for our bags back in the U.S.

Now, my younger child, is not approached at school by boys to get her number, but to her, a good day when she gets home from school and a boy has sent a SnapChat–asking to be friends. Or she gets a private message on Instagram, asking for a phone number to text.  They never have to actually TALK to each other, and they don’t.  My daughter is still a silly young girl who cannot talk to a boy she really thinks is adorable.  She can text and snapchat with the best of them, but once in school, she is as awkward as heck.

Virtual hound-dogs

A year ago, one of the boys that was texting my daughter pretty seriously (that even made me laugh!), was found to be texting a bunch of girls her age at a time.  He had quite the little virtual “black book” going on between his middle school and hers.  She and her friends began comparing notes about who was texting “Danny” (name changed) and they all dumped him.  No one was actually ‘going out’ but it peeved ALL of them. He was a ‘virtual play-ah’.

No verbal skills required

So, this is how it goes I guess.  I have no idea how this is going to play out for my younger one who starts high school in a month.  It has changed a lot since her older brother started, with even less in-person communication happening.  It is too bad too–the kids have no idea what to say when at school, even though they spent the better part of an evening snapping selfies and exchanging in long conversations about parents, dogs, death, grandparents.   (By the way, YES, I have spoken to both of my kids and frequently discuss appropriate behavior with others on social media) All of these conversations could be batched and discussed verbally, if they weren’t so freaked out about talking to each other.

No virtual babies

So, back to Jack & Diane…growing up, they had to do a lot in person, and while times were different,  (Angelina Jolie wasn’t making unmarried parents cool yet & the internet wasn’t there to demonstrate ‘things’) they had hormones too.  They had to talk, meet up, hang out, at much younger ages than I’m seeing my kids. (Remember, I have one who has graduated–I’ve seen the recent movie).  The one thing I know for certain is that at some point there will be conversation in person, there HAS to be, because I don’t think we’ve figured out how to have a Homecoming Dance virtually. I’m actually ok with some parts of this ‘not in real life conversation’…no one caught an STD or got pregnant on a phone call.

More to come …