Letting go.....again.

She had been sitting on the stairs when she began to cry. She told me later it had come with no warning. She was a little embarrassed and her eyes were moist as we talked. We had spent the first few weeks of school assuring young moms that their little ones would be okay. One of my moms had dabbed at her own tears as we met on the first day and she entrusted her three-year-old son to my care. Another reluctantly left her second-grader in a room full of strangers and with a teacher she barely knew.

We were used to brave dads who attempted to hide their nervousness by joking with their children as they dropped them off in the morning. We had become accustomed to anxious moms who lingered at the classroom door and returned a few minutes later hoping to catch a glimpse of a successfully separated preschooler. We, ourselves, had been through it and confidently guaranteed these relatively new parents that at the end of the day we would return happy, smiling children to them.

So, when my tearful friend and I had our conversation it became apparent that we were no different. My friend confided in me that since her son had left for college she missed him terribly. She was frustrated when she called and he wasn't in his room when she thought he might be. Where was he? Who was he with? We both laughed.

I told her my college student had called home sick. I told her to go to the infirmary. "Mom!" she gasped. "They give you medicine that makes you worse!" I told her, yeah, that was the same college infirmary I remembered. Go anyway. I had hung up the phone thinking of piles of family quilts, homemade chicken soup and a couple of drugstore "while you wait for the prescription" videos. This time she would have to comfort herself, fix her own soup and take medicine that makes you worse - 400 miles from home.

I remembered being told that the homesick phone calls, the sick phone calls and the "i'm overwhelmed" phone calls would cause me to lose sleep, make me sad and cause me to wonder if community college weren't the answer after all. Then, after 24 or 48 hours of worry, a remarkably cheerful phone call would erase all previous cares and concerns. And, much like the young mom who separates from a tearful preschooler, watches the clock until carpool time and then sees a happy child bounce into the car at the end of the school day, I realize that all is well and will be well.

My friend and I are lucky to have each other. We try to laugh about the fact that she doesn't have to hide the food from him anymore and I don't have to share makeup and jewelry anymore and we recognize there are benefits. And I tell her that her son won't always be out of the dorm when she calls and she tells me that maybe my daughter will live in spite of the infirmary.

But there is this crack in the bottom of the marble basin in her bathroom....a crack that appeared after years of her sitting ON the counter putting on makeup or peering into the mirror at the occasional breakouts on her adolescent face. Now that she's gone, we could repair the crack.

Could. But won't.

Yes, I will cry when you leave....

It's late at night and I've got a lot on my mind. I'm trying to figure out how in the world you are going to get

an entire room full of clothes and belongings into a dorm room to be shared with a roommate.

I'm trying to figure out how in the world you are going to find your bed at night under layers of jeans and blouses and t-shirts. I'm wondering how many laundry loads of white shirts will end up pink and how long before you realize that washing machines eat socks.

And I'm trying to remember what I've told you and if you've remembered. And then I realize that the things I think you need to know are probably the things you'll forget and the phone bill will probably be evidence that reminders are just a phone call away. Then I hope the things you remember are really the most important things. Not how much soap to put in the machine or how many towels the dryer will hold but things like the red plastic bat.

You remember that fat, red plastic bat that you and your brother played with in the front yard. How your father would throw the plastic ball but just before releasing it would yell "Swing!" to give you enough time to react. By the time the ball got to you, you began to swing and almost always made contact. The ball sailed down the street and you ran, first to the sweet gum tree, then to the tire swing and finally to the water faucet. A home run every time.

And I hope you remember the rides in the back of the MGB. Two toddlers in sweaters and wool caps in the rumble seat of Dad's pride and joy.....dinners at Granma's and blowing on blades of grass in the back yard on a warm summer afternoon....tea parties at the other Granma's and dancing on the coffee table.....

I know you'll remember going to camp for the first time and writing home that you would hate me forever if I didn't come get you RIGHT NOW! I laughed and cried when I read it.

Cabbage Patch Kids and old-fashioned birthday parties at home...wonderful make-believe games with neighborhood friends under tents of sheets and old blankets on itchy Bermuda grass Soon, the hurts you experience over a skinned knee or lost dog seemed trivial in the face of a lost love or a broken friendship. A friend dies, a classmate moves, a grandparent gets cancer....relationships change.

And then the graduation caps and gowns are delivered. At school one day when the teachers are tired and the students are restless, you say you all put on the caps and paraded down the halls singing"Pomp and Circumstance" at the top of your lungs, making up words as you tripped over each other. Senior Skip Day has come and gone...announcements are mailed....prom is in the past.

You've been gone a lot lately. Senior Year. Out with friends, last dinners at familiar haunts....frantic rushing about, cramming in as many last minute memories as possible. That's okay. It helps us parents learn to let go.

You asked me if I would cry when you leave. As I sit at the computer and rush to meet a deadline, you come in and plop down in a chair and open your yearbook and read me page after page of humorous, touching and, yes, even some shocking autographs.

We've sat here together before. At 3:00 in the morning trying to finish up a paper of assignment. We've seen good times and bad times at three in the morning. Those times we won't forget.

So, yes, I will cry when you leave. But when I do, remember that I am pushing you gently into the world with sad tears and happy tears. You are my friend and you are part of me. You will take a piece of my heart with you but it will be the best part, And just so you know, my heart won't be broken for I will mend it with a piece of your heart you will leave behind.

There are so many things to remember but the important things won't be forgotten. Like red bats and plastic balls and tire swings in the front yard.

"So fast, so soon,

With eager steps they run to greet their future.

Does she hesitate? Will he look back?

Who would have imagined...where has the time gone?"

I just didn't know if the timing was right for a new dog. We had put it off for a couple of months. We already had a prissy poodle-like house dog. A real cutesy. But he wanted a boy dog. Not necessarily a male dog but the kind of dog a boy can romp with and tussle with. A BIG dog. And he had just seen this commercial about the Humane Society and how you could adopt a dog. We told him we'd think about it. But first, we had soccer tryouts to worry about. He had been approached by his coach about trying out for club soccer. He was flattered and eager. We hadn't exactly discouraged him, but we knew about club soccer. We knew about contracts and cuts and phone calls in the night. We had heard about out-of-town tournaments and extra practices and sitting on the bench.

We talked about the competition and the intensity of the parents and kids. We talked about rejection and self-worth. We talked about life-after-soccer tryouts. The first cut was brutal. After a 45 minute workout the first day of tryouts, one club handed out 10 contracts. There was no need to come back. Not willing to drive all over the Dallas area every day for a week in pursuit of the perfect club, we didn't go to any other tryouts until the one in Richardson.

But....the dog again. Okay, okay. After the morning tryouts we would see about going to the Humane Society to look at the dogs. The tryouts were organized and systematic. The coach was positive and encouraging to all the boys and told them to wait for a phone call some time during the weekend. Again, we talked about rejection and self-worth. That afternoon we went to the Humane Society. We looked over all the dogs. There was this little brown dog with quite large paws. A dog to grow up with. A playful, loving mutt who took a liking to all members of our family. We had to sign papers and promise to care for this dog properly. The kids had to read the fine print and sign their names, too. They would call to set up an appointment to come out and check our yard and fence.

That night we received no phone calls. I asked my son if he would be upset if he didn't make the club. He reminded me that the coach had said the call might not come until the next day and besides, he would have a new dog, anyway. The next morning the phone rang. My son answered it and handed it over to his father. But not before listening in just long enough to find out who was on the other end. As he tossed the cordless handset across the room, he let out a "YES!" while pulling his elbow into his ribs. You know, the way the kids do now days instead of yelling a "Hurrah!"

Ready to offer a congratulatory high-five, I reached for my son. He threw his arms around my waist and squeezed. I tried to be casual as I asked him who was on the phone. "The Humane Society! They're coming today to check the yard!" And with that he raced outside.

He never got the other phone call. It was just as well, I assured myself. We really weren't intense enough and as driven as some of the other families. And besides, he so enjoyed all activities that he hadn't really focused on one enough to excel. Contracts, cuts, travel. Were these things a 10 year-old should really be worry about?

He lay in bed staring at the ceiling. He had already designed the best dog house in the whole world. And this dog would certainly need a good strong leash. And balls. Lots of balls! A name. He had to come up with a really neat name. He couldn't wait to call his friends in the morning.

Maybe the timing was perfect, after all.

Cast and Wait....

I embarrassed myself. I locked my keys in my car and burst into tears. I called the fire department and begged for assistance. They have a nifty tool that unlocks electric door locks in a matter of seconds. They asked me if it was an emergency. I whimpered. They asked me if a child was locked inside the car. I wailed. They asked if the car was locked with the engine running. I sobbed. They couldn't have known that I had received a Mother's Day card that read "to a beautiful middle-aged mother." They couldn't have known that I had reached that stage in my life where I was once again experiencing that well-known early adolescent malaise - raging hormones. By the time I hung up the phone, they were quite aware.

A friend of mine locked her keys in the car and reacted in much the same manner. Hysterics. It was just the last straw for her, too. She called a locksmith who unlocked the car for her and presented her with a bill for $40. She paid him and then threw the $200 worth of groceries in the trunk; uncontrollable tears by now. The Tom Thumb manager felt so sorry for her he made an extra set of key for free!

I broke down and called the locksmith. And then the wait began. I waited. And I waited. An hour passed. Lightning flashed in the distance and I could see waves of swollen rain clouds rolling in my direction. Yet, I refused to go inside and wait in the safety of the school. I had so much to do and so many places to be and I was mad. Patience is not one of my virtues. I wanted - no, NEEDED - to be by myself.

I sat on the curb and was soon thinking about one of my three-year-old students. This was the one who gave me sardines for a Christmas present. He had brought a baggie of sardines to school for lunch. They were gooey with a tangy mustard sauce. Hmmmm. He asked me if I would reach in this little handy lock baggie and get the sardines out for him. "They're kinda slimey," he told me with a grin. I shook my head and backed away from the table, fighting the urge to run to the bathroom. Imagine my surprise when I found a cute little can of sardines wrapped in candy cane-striped ribbon in the Christmas stocking he presented me with at Christmas.

This kid lives to fish. H comes to school regularly with fish stories and tells me about using peanut butter as bait. He thinks the school should raise lots of money to put a big lake on the playground and stock it with fish so we can go fishing. As I sat on the curb waiting for the "Ready-Lock Have-You-Got-A-Couple-of-Days-To-Wait locksmith, I had to agree with him. I don't go fishing very often but when I do, I find it very therapeutic. Cast and wait. Cast and wait. I envisioned myself at the cabin in Red River casting and waiting. I didn't even care if I caught anything. There was just something gratifying about nurturing that part of me that so often absent. The calm, patient, persevering me. Cast and wait.

I imagined my little friend and myself sitting side by side quietly fishing. Well, probably not quietly since he has the vocabulary of a twelve-year-old with the curiosity and energy of a three-year-old. But something told me that after a couple of hours fishing with this kid, I might even catch something. He might even let me borrow some of his peanut butter bait.

My thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of fat raindrops hitting the concrete. I dashed to the protection of the covered porch. I waited another hour for the locksmith. As he drove up, the bottom fell out of black, ominous clouds that hung low over the school parking lot. Serves him right, I thought, for charging me $40. He even had the nerve to smile as he handed me my soggy receipt. I am one of those who thinks we can learn a lesson from everything we experience - good and bad. I searched for the lesson to be learned. Don't be in such a hurry. Slow down. Take a deep breath. Be patient.

Cast and wait.

Let me count the ways.....

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

I love the way you don't replace the toilet paper; the empty roll reminds me how empty and quiet the house will be when you are gone.

I love the way you stay on the phone til all hours of the night, the giggles and shrieks that unexpectedly wake me from deepest sleep tell me that you have arrived home safely.

I love the way you ask for money; the emptiness of my wallet contrasts with the fullness of my heart when you offer loans to your sibling.

I love the way you open our pantry to your friends, for I know in time the constant flow of hungry teenagers through our kitchen will diminish and the chips will grow stale.

I love the way you leave hand prints on the door frame; they leave no hint of small fingers that could barely reach the doorknob but a few years ago.

I love the way you retreat into the depths of your room to be seen again but for brief interludes; it is certainly preparation for the coming years when you begin your own life and I will see less of you.

I love the way you study and produce homework independently; it removes from the recesses of my mind those years of struggle and anger and development when you resisted such scholarly endeavors.

I love the way you are becoming your own person; it tells me that my work is almost done.

How do I love thee? It is easy.

Have no fear, the end of school is near....

Tis the week before school's out and all through the house,

Bedtimes are slipping and Mom is a grouch.

6:30 comes earlier each morning it seems;

It's hard to wake Junior who's have a dream

Of baseball and swimming and summer vacation.

He drags out of bed with less than elation.

School lunches are boring to eat AND prepare;

How many more days of "I have nothing to wear!"

Breakfast is hurried - lunches forgotten!

"You didn't brush your teeth! They're sure to get rotten!"

Mealtime is becoming more and more crazy

And Mom is getting more and more lazy.

It's too hot for cooking - you've got a game tonight!

Grab a quick hot dog and leave on a light!

"WHAT? YOU'VE GOT HOMEWORK? WHY DIDN'T YOU DO IT?

Bring your books in the car - you'd better get to it!

Oh no, extra innings! No time for a shower!

When we get home dust yourself with some powder!"

It's finally ten o'clock and all is well-

"Mom! I forgot to read!" comes a blood-curling yell.

You must check my math and my report that is due!"

(When they commit me can I have a room with a view?

There's no time for resting for there's Field Day to get through,

Awards Night, a Field Trip and the Bike Rodeo, too."

When finally that infamous day does arrive

The last bell rings and we all have survived.

No more hectic mornings nor hours in the car,

Just baseball games and picnics under the stars.

Tis the second week of summer and all through the house

The clutter is mounting and Mom is a grouch!

While teachers are basking out by the pool,

Mom's marking the calendar til the first day of school!

summer vacation begins in the wee hours of the morning....

Summer is officially here according to the patio thermometer that stares at her through the garden doors. It is muggy, still and hot. Time to get up where the air is a little thinner and much cooler and certainly cleaner. Tonight they would pack the car. She had always loved car trips. Maybe it had to do with the years as a child she spent traveling by car to the East Coast. The excitement the night before a trip prevented a sound sleep and when the alarm blared at 3 a.m., it took but a few minutes for the family of five to climb into the packed car with pillows and blankets and snacks and toys.

Packing the car was certainly another matter. tempers flared as it became obvious that there was not enough room for everything that had been stacked next to the door. And it always seemed that just as the last puzzle piece had been put in place, another bag or suitcase turned up to upset what was to have been the final arrangement.

Even through the exhaustion and frustration of preparing for the trip, she could still feel the excitement of "going down the road" as she looked forward to the next morning. Her husband, unaccustomed to 3 a.m. departures, compromised with 4:30a.m. She woke promptly at three o'clock. As she filled the two-cup thermos with coffee, she intentionally clattered the cup against saucer to rouse her slumbering family. She was ready to go. Now.

She had always felt that there was something magical about heading out of town before dawn. The neighborhood streets are quiet except for the occasional barking of a dog. The stars are barely visible and the sound of nighttime crickets is still obvious but waning.

Finally, they are on their way. Traffic on the freeway picks up and city speed limits are ignored. As each car passes, it is easy to imagine where their life is taking them at this early hour. Probably to the early shift or possible home from the late shift, but most likely no one is fortunate enough to be leaving on summer vacation.

As the lights of the city are left behind and the freeway turns into a two-way rural road, the children snuggle down into the piles of blankets and pillows and slip into motion-induced sleep. Mom is quiet and believes that this is the best part of the trip. The sky is beginning to glow with the first sign of a beautiful sunrise. She nods her head to no one but herself as she realizes that all sunrises on the first day of vacation are perfect.

The children are asleep, unaware that arms and legs are entwined and each one's "space" has been invaded by the other. The jug of water is cool against her legs as little puddles of water collect beneath the leaky spout. She reaches for Redbook or Ladies Home Journal, which she knows will be just the right reading material for this stage of the trip She would save the 700 page novel for later. Light reading was enough right now. There was too much to see as night turned to day.

The hum of the engine and the drone of the radio were familiar and comforting, for she knew that as the day went on this delicious feeling would be but an image in her mind. The cool of early morning would disappear and the heat of midday sun would wear on them all. The slightly soggy sandwiches would be eaten and the jug of water would be ignored in favor of gas-station soda. In the back seat, crumbs and candy wrappers would litter the floor and the children would take on a disheveled look. Shoes and socks would find their way underneath the front seat and toys would be abandoned for the creative games of the mind. Patience would shorten and fights would erupt and spills would create wet spots on the back seat.

Then the first day of vacation would end. Dinner and baths and a much-needed walk would revive all. Then back to their room where they would pile onto one of the double beds in the hotel, laughing and crowding and tumbling to the floor. And when all were once again quiet and only she was awake, she would smile and turn over on her side. She would fling one leg off the side of the bed and stuff a pillow under one arm while the little one scooted even closer to her curved back.

The first day of vacation was always the best from beginning to end.

Young Girl's T-Shirt Becomes Cap and Gown

I saw that look on your face again the other day. The look I've noticed several times in the last few months. I noticed you gazing at the little girl stumbling down the sidewalk in her Daddy's over-sized t-shirt. We were both watching her as she stopped and looked up at her mother who was following a few steps behind.

Simultaneously, Mother and little girl reached arms toward the other and, as if performing a much practiced dance routine, the little girl jumped as Mother leaned forward to catch her. Perfectly in sync and without missing a step, Mother continued walking down the cracked sidewalk. As the little girl rested her head on the familiar shoulder, Mother absentmindedly pushed strands of sweaty hair out of the child's eyes.

I knew what you were thinking at that moment and what had preoccupied your thought during the weeks leading up to this day. Could it have been so long ago? Hadn't it only been yesterday that the little girl in your life was stumbling down your sidewalk with you in tow? And now she was no longer wearing Daddy's t-shirt but a graduation cap and gown.

You had experienced all the anxieties of a first-time mother as your child began her formal education. As her schooling continued, you became more aware that what seemed to be of monumental importance to as a first-grade mother seemed almost insignificant as your pre-teen began junior high.

You began to notice the subtle signals of a struggling adolescent that told you to begin letting go. Your child's needs changed. She need you not to need her so much. She needed you to be there but in the background. You became her anchor, just beneath the surface of her life, unseen but providing the security she needed to begin the search for self. She sometimes was rude and often sarcastic but she was also sensitive and forgiving.

There were certainly times when you longed for her adulthood and independence from you. But the ambivalence of parenting quickly diminished that longing as she began to plan her life apart from you.

Suddenly, test scores and school achievements lost a little of their glitter. You now begin to wonder if she is prepared to make it on her own 200 miles away from you. The umbilical cord that stretched until it was forced to break seemed to be growing again.

But Mother Nature will assure that will not happen. The cockiness and confidence of a high school graduate will wear on your nerves until you find yourself digging in the attic for those college-bound suitcases. And just as you retrieve the last dusty duffle bag from among the boxes of Fisher-Price Little People and Madam Alexander dolls, you pause and look around the stuffy attic.

You know you are still looking for something. I know what you are looking for. You are looking for that little girl in her Daddy's t-shirt with arms held high, silently asking for the soft shoulder of a young mother.

You say the tears are related only to the dust and mold that have always given you sneezing fits and blood-shot eyes. I know better. I only hope that by crying with you there will not be so many tears when my time comes.

But something tells me that that is not the way it will happen.

June 2, 1991

Going Back......

well, THAT picture certainly imported HUGE! sorry....probably takes a while to download the page. will have to find a better picture.

i wrote a column for the richardson daily news for 10 years before the rdn was absorbed by the dallas morning news. i saved most of my weekly columns in binders and folders and desk drawers. i really want to collect them into a booklet of sorts to preserve that time in my life. some columns dealt with politics and current events, others with family and community. i'll probably handpick those i think are most suitable to a personal blog and type them (unedited) into this blog.

maybe along the way, readers will enjoy going back a few years with me; watch out - you may recognize yourself in an entry or two!