Growing, Growing, Grown

Ryan McGuire via Pixabay

I've noticed that there are seasons on Facebook. Homecoming. Holidays. Prom. Graduation. Summer vacation. Each brings photos -- high school kids looking glamorous, smiling families, beautiful beaches, mountain views, diploma-wielding young adults -- and each can be a little bittersweet. Behind the smiles and the scenery are myriad emotions -- the escort that got away, the family member no longer at the table, the exhaustion that accompanies that triumphant hike to the top of the mountain.

Currently, back-to-school season and its companion, the college drop-off, are dominating Facebook. Excitement and anticipation mingle with a reluctance to let go of summer and an apprehension about what lies ahead.

I'm currently in my third college drop-off season with my first and only child. Freshman year was tough; we went from parents to empty-nesters in the space of one twenty-four hour period. We counted the days (literally) until Parents' Weekend, caring nothing about the activities the college had so meticulously planned and everything about wrapping our daughter in a hug and spending as much time with her as possible.

Last year was a little bit easier. She was ready to go back, excited to see her friends and less apprehensive because she had a good idea of what lay ahead. We had a wedding to attend in October, and so she was coming home for a weekend after a little more than a month away. We could do this. We had experience with the empty nest and it wasn't all bad.

This year, she was home for three weeks in May and two weeks in August. The summer was busy, which made it go by quickly.

And I'm not ready.

Isn't this supposed to be a progression? Freshman year is tough -- we expect that. Sophomore year, a little less tough than freshman year and so on.

So why do I feel as though I'm going backward?

If being busy is the antidote to missing my daughter, then I believe I've found a cure. The trouble is that overdosing on the antidote isn't good either. Before I knew it, all that busyness spilled over into summer, cutting short my already limited time with my daughter, leaving me unprepared for the end-of-summer goodbye that comes all too soon.

She leaves Sunday and, today, I find myself wondering whether it's the busyness of summer or the dawning of a reality I've dodged for two years catching up to me. When she left for college, a part of me knew she'd never come back home in the same way again, but I chose to put that information in a little box on the shelf until I could deal with it. Although I'm not sure I'm ready to acknowledge the contents of that box, her summer away from home has nudged the lid off, sending the essence of the adult life that stretches out before my daughter floating in my direction.

All of their lives, we talk about our children growing up. It's tough to see them go from infants to toddlers to preschoolers and beyond, but these are stages we expect. I even teach this stuff but, somehow, I never thought about the cusp between growing and grown. There's no developmental norms sheet from the pediatrician for that gray area, no textbook to discuss the attributes, no Facebook photos documenting that wisp of time.

But ready or not, here we are.

Alexas_Fotos via Pixabay

Friday Feature: Why Do I Have to Take All These Other Classes?

A few semesters ago, one of my students and I were talking after class. He was frustrated by the fact that he couldn't just "live" in his major. Why, he wondered, did he have to take all these "other" classes? He knew what he wanted to do with his life and, in the classes in his major, he was like a fish in water. He struggled, however, with classes outside of his major, in part because writing papers was difficult for him and because they required him to think outside his comfort zone.

Many students and their parents ask these same questions. As college costs rise and a degree no longer promises entry into the world of corner offices, all of those "other" classes can seem like a waste of time and money. College students who love their liberal arts focus but who might not understand the difference between a Bachelor of Arts and a Bachelor of Science, end up tongue-tied when the conversation at dinner turns to questions like, "Art history? What does that have to do with your major?"

As it turns out, all of those "other" classes might just have more value than you'd think in the "real world" after graduation. As someone who graduated from a liberal arts program and who teaches "those" classes, I understand the value of learning and refining communication skills and learning to think critically, but this piece on LinkedIn about the value of arts and humanities approached the argument from the other side: the science side.

Honestly, I rarely read the LinkedIn articles that land in my inbox, but, as an instructor at a private college and the parent of a college junior, I'm glad I read this one. Knowing "well-rounded" is a good thing and understanding its real-world value in a field outside my own are two different things -- something I'll discuss with my students when I assign them this article to read in the fall.

Sayonara, Spring Semester

coyot via Pixabay

Yesterday morning, I taught my last positive psychology class of the semester. While the end of the semester is always bittersweet, closing out this class definitely inspired some pangs of loss. An upper level elective where everyone chose the class because they wanted to be there, it had a different feel than the requirement-fulfilling classes I'm used to teaching. In addition, this was the first class I created from scratch, and it was a small class that included activities and assessments as part of the curriculum, so there was a personal element built in, allowing us to make connections, much as I had when I worked as a counselor.

On positive psych class days, I never failed to leave campus smiling. But yesterday, I was a little sad.

What a difference a day makes.

Today, I taught my last two classes for the semester. I enjoy these students, too, and will especially miss the discussions we had in my afternoon class, which just clicked. But today it was 90 degrees and I taught two classes back-to-back in a third floor classroom with no evidence of air conditioning. We got a cross breeze going, but it didn't really cool the room down and by the time I was finished, I was wilting and so were my students.

In a way, I'm grateful because now, I'm ready.  I've been barreling toward the end of the semester so quickly and with my blinders so securely in place that I came close to losing track of the reality of this day. It was only this morning that I realized that, although I have plenty to do tomorrow -- papers to grade, writing projects to tackle, a house to put back into shape -- I don't have to set an alarm.

Unlike most summers, I have only a few weeks off before I teach again. Since I've agreed to teach a summer session course, my summer break is shorter by a month. I'll be off while my daughter is home and I'll have time for a vacation, and so this plan, which allows me to do all the things I love, is a good one.

Tonight, I have papers to grade and projects to work on, mail to sort through, things to put away. But I am taking a break. Tomorrow, I will dig in again, moving into finals' week at a more leisurely pace, refreshed by a night off and a break in the routine, inspired by a semester whose end is bittersweet.

I Declare a Snow Day!

WildOne via Pixabay

I have never liked driving in the snow, and the older I get, the less willing I am to risk it. My daughter's car (a hand-me-down from my husband) drives like a tank and helps to give me the confidence I lack on snowy days but, when it comes to ice, I'd rather just stay home.

This is fine on the days when I don't have obligations, but on teaching days, I try to follow the schedule set by the college where I teach. Fortunately, I have more flexibility when it comes to canceling classes than I did when I worked in a school district, but that's a benefit I try to use sparingly.

Today, however, was one of those days. I had every intention of sticking to the two-hour delay, expecting that the roads would be fine by the time I had to venture out and on to campus. But the combination of an email from a student unwilling to brave the roads and a brief foray onto my still ice-encrusted back step convinced me that one shortened class was not worth the risk.

So I decided an e-class was in order.

I must confess that technology and I have a rocky relationship. Most of the time, my attempts into brave new (to me) online worlds work out fine. Occasionally, they fail spectacularly. This semester, it took me three adapters and three calls to IT to achieve success doing something I used to take for granted -- hooking up my Mac to a projector in the classroom. That experience left me a little wary of trying new things, especially with the class who'd borne witness to my tech challenges.

But, they're a good group of young adults, so I decided to give it a shot, trusting that they'd bear with me. Instead of venturing onto campus today, I set up a chat on our course Moodle. It wasn't an even exchange -- trying to teach new material on a new platform with short notice to everyone involved didn't seem to be a reasonable goal.

So, I set the bar a little lower. We'd meet, I'd make sure to answer their questions regarding an upcoming paper and try to nudge a little chat out of the deal.

In the end, it exceeded my expectations. Nearly everyone made it (and, most likely, more made it to the online version than would have made it into the classroom) and the time flew -- for me, at least. I was proud of me (for trying something new), proud of them (for the insights they brought to the table, so to speak) and still warm, safe and dry.

FunkyFocus via Pixabay

As we get older, it can become harder to try new things, especially with an audience. As much as I hate to admit it, I like my comfort zone, so I need to remind myself that too much time spent there can leave me more stuck and stodgy than comfortable. Part of the beauty of teaching young adults is that their willingness to go out on a limb can be contagious and, when we're all in it together, their support can make calculated risks less scary. And, if I expect them to take risks then, to a certain extent, I need to be willing to do the same.

Turns out not only can you teach an old dog new tricks, but the old dog might even find them fun.

Unless, of course, it involves driving on ice.

Miss Her More

              Pixabay

When both of her kids stayed in Pennsylvania after attending college there, my mom adjusted. She fell into a routine of not seeing us, remaining connected via phone calls and visits. The former were at least as frequent as they'd been when we were in college, the latter less so. Still, we stayed close, chatting often about both trivia and events of significance. Last fall, we talked a lot about the impending election and, though I miss my mom tremendously, I'm glad she's not here to see the aftermath.

But I digress.

It was the visits that got her. She always said she was fine with us being away until we came to visit and then, when we left, she missed us all over again.

I thought I got it then, but I really get it now.

On Friday, I was so excited about my daughter coming home for the weekend that I posted my Friday Feature on the wrong blog (at least that's the excuse I'm using). When I picked her up at the train station, it took all of twenty seconds for everything to feel as though she'd never left, and then, almost as quickly, it was time for her to leave again. A seasoned traveler now, she said her goodbyes in the parking lot before walking off into the station to board the train.

Today, the house is very quiet. That's not entirely bad, as Mondays are a work-at-home day for me for much of the day and I concentrate better in the absence of distractions. Still, there's a difference between quiet and occupied and quiet and unoccupied. Even though I've grown accustomed to the latter and have even built my schedule around it, I'd trade it for the former any time, even if only for a weekend.

We'll see her again at Thanksgiving, and I'm already looking forward to it. We texted back and forth this morning -- a luxury that makes this whole away at college thing easier than it ever was for my parents -- re-establishing the empty nest at home/young adult at school dynamic.

All of this begs a question: if I could change things and have her closer to home, or living here full-time, would I?

I would not.

idamkilde via Pixabay

I'm proud of the person she is becoming, and grateful to have a child with whom I truly want to spend time. I love it when she's home, but when she's not it's because she is doing exactly what we raised her to do: spreading her wings, becoming her own person, relying on us when she wants to instead of because she has to. She has done her job; she has entertained us, challenged us and rounded out our family. Now, it's time for her to leave us to our own devices, trusting that we'll be just fine and our empty nest will always have plenty of room for her.

And, as you can probably guess, she is safe in that assumption.

Time to Fly

Word Cloud from taxedo.com via "Roots, Wings, and Me"

There are seasons I really enjoy on Facebook. Prom, Homecoming and graduation are three particular favorites as I scroll through the parade of young adults I knew as children dressed up and looking grown up. Back to school is fun, too -- a season of new beginnings and posed photos in new clothes with crisp, fresh trimmings heralding the beginning of a new school year.

But beginnings follow endings, and these can be bittersweet. All the preparations that lead up to a new school herald not only a fresh start, but also the end of summer. The season of first day photos at the back door or under the dogwood tree has yielded to the season of packing up my child's belongings and transporting her to another state.

Last year, we grew accustomed to her being at school, transitioning back into the household of two that we were before she was born. There were benefits to this, of course, but it took most of first semester for things to begin to feel normal.

Then, in June, we grew accustomed to her being home again. It was a short summer -- a revolving door summer -- kicked off by her trips to London and the beach and characterized by her coming and going pretty much as she pleased. Still, she was here much of the time and the timbre and feel of the house changed as we transitioned from two back to three again.

Her impending departure brings mixed feelings all around. She is excited, ready to return to her friends and the studies she finds fascinating, not to mention the freedom that comes with living with roommates instead of parents.

It's a great feeling when your child has found her place, but it's tinged with sadness when that place is a train ride away. We're excited for her, but less prepared for the ending that this latest beginning brings than we ought to be, given that we've already experienced it once and we knew it was coming.

congerdesign via Pixabay

The process of giving our children roots and wings gives us as parents roots and wings as well. When our children are young, we dig in, building routines and traditions that transcend the places we call home, anchoring us as a family. As we grow together, these roots deepen and strengthen, creating the foundation for the wings our children will need in order to become who they are meant to be. 

Then, just about the time that the roots have taken hold, the sprouting of wings begins. Walking home from the bus stop alone. Getting a driver's license. Going to college. 

Okay, maybe not this. But post-adolescent flight
definitely requires a sense of humor.
Photo: Alexas Fotos via Pixabay

In the meantime, our parental wings have been clipped, and it takes time for the concept of our flying on our own to take hold. Theoretically, if we're wise, it should take less time after each successive, feathers-flying departure of our offspring to realize that we haven't lost the ability to fly ourselves; we've merely suppressed it. Sometimes, we need a nudge, just as our children did, to focus on our wings, trusting that our roots will keep us connected, even as we fly in a different direction.

Roots, while important, keep us earth-bound, while wings allow us to soar. After watching from the nest for a decent interval (which will, I hope, be shorter than last year's), I think I'm ready to test out my wings.

After all, why should soaring to new heights be limited to the young? 

Reclaiming a Resolution

Pixabay

When I was in college, we didn't have a television in our room. As far as I knew, the only TV in the dorm was in the common room, tucked away on another floor. If I wanted to watch TV, I had to hope no one else was there, or that whoever was there would be watching something I wanted to see. Most of the time, I preferred to go play the piano in one of the practice rooms in the music building.

In retrospect, there were probably other televisions in other places; I just wasn't interested enough to find out. Consequently, it was easy for me to break my television habit. For four years, I watched little TV at school, and limited my viewing to those times I was home on break.

Over the years, my TV habit has reasserted itself. When I find a show I like, I'm a loyal viewer, watching it every time it's on. In some cases, I even watch reruns. I'm on my third pass through Gilmore Girls and have watched so many episodes of Friends, Big Bang Theory, M*A*S*H and The Golden Girls that there are lines I can recite along with the characters.

I was thinking about this last night as I mentally reviewed my progress on my New Year's resolutions. Once again, my reading for pleasure is coming up short. I can blame this on class prep or on the fact that when I get time alone in a quiet house, I write, rather than reading.

And those things are true. But, I still manage to find time to play Words with Friends and other games on my iPad. I also check Facebook and Twitter (where I find much of my reading material) at least once a day, usually more. And, when I crash at the end of the day, I turn on the TV. Once it's on, I find it hard to turn it off, especially if I'm watching with someone else.

I realized that somewhere in all of that leisure time lay the answer to my reading dilemma, and, when I stopped to think about it, the answer was simple.

Reruns. By reclaiming as little as thirty minutes (one episode of a sitcom) each night and "depriving" myself of an episode of a show I'd already seen, I could exponentially increase my reading time. 

So I tried it last night. My leisure reading was admittedly not what most would choose (a positive psychology textbook), but it was what I wanted to read. I polished off the first chapter, and realized that more than half an hour had passed. I won't lie and say I didn't sneak in an episode of Gilmore Girls before bed, or that I didn't end up overshooting my bedtime, but, hey, it was the first night.

I'm really excited about reclaiming my resolution, especially since it was so easy. So often, we fall into habits, forgetting that our time is our own, and we choose how we spend it. I don't anticipate ever becoming someone who eschews all television, but it's high time I at least became a little more discriminating. 

If I could do it at 18, I should be able to do it now that I'm a grown-up. 

Allegedly.

Sweet Silence?

Ali Spagnola

Last winter, as the college visits began to wane, replaced by FAFSAs and a college to-do list, I found myself projecting to the time when my daughter would be happily ensconced at college. A good antidote to the recurring nag-ignore cycle in which we sometimes found ourselves between acceptances and the move itself, it reminded me that though her imminent departure made me sad, there might actually be some things to look forward to.

Last night, as I was settling on today's topic for this blog, I came across a draft of that post. The timing was perfect, because this week, we're preparing to head north for Parents' Weekend, seeing her for the first time since we dropped her off in August. 

I think it's safe to say she's settled in well. Surprisingly, so have we.

The list of things I wouldn't miss was short -- one item in fact. It was the music. Unfailingly loud and always peaking when I was trying to concentrate, its sudden bursts could shake the thoughts right out of my head. Don't get me wrong -- I like music, and my daughter and I actually like some of the same stuff. It's just that I work better in quiet, and a blast of any sound when I'm trying to think is generally unwelcome, especially now that I've reached the age where wispy threads of thought unravel at twice the speed in which they form. 

I wondered, however, if this was a case of being careful what I wished for -- if the lack of music would make the house too quiet.

It didn't.

There is one sound I miss, though. The sound of her voice. I miss talking to her and hearing her laugh. Texts are wonderful, and I'm profoundly aware of how fortunate I am to be parenting a young adult in a time when communication is so fast and so easy. But those same teens have developed an aversion to phone calls, and so actual conversations -- the ones where I get to hear what's going on in her life -- are infrequent. And greatly missed. 

And so, not surprisingly, that's what I'm most looking forward to this weekend. Just talking. Laughing. Spending time with her. 

I have a feeling the weekend will go much too quickly, and, when we return home again, the house will seem much too quiet.

At least until Thanksgiving.

Friday Feature: Move-in Day

Pixabay

It's coming. The big change. The humungous goodbye followed by the teary drive home.

In less than two weeks, we drop my daughter off at college. I'm excited for her, and even for the all the last minute shopping for must-haves.

Part of the reason I'm even close to ready has to do with my voracious consumption of articles on what to/not to buy/pack. Those have set me up for the next hurdle: how to pack it so it all fits and arrives in one piece -- or at least as many pieces as it was to begin with.

Are you wondering the same thing? Check out this article by Lisa Heffernan of the fabulous Grown and Flown website.

It won't help make the parting any sweeter, but it might just help with that last minute shopping.

Absquatulating August

When you work at home, business hours are 24-7. It’s a hard habit to break, at least without a fair amount of guilt--even in the summer. I don't actually work 24 hours a day, but, because I make my own schedule, I'm just as likely to be working at 10PM as at 10AM. And, since I'm not a morning person, I'm more likely to be working at 7PM than 7AM.

Pixabay

Despite the fact that June and July signify summer vacation, I feel guilty if I'm not being productive at the same rate that I am during the school year because my primary job description changes. In June and July, I can focus on my writing, harnessing the full power of my creative energy to use in crafting articles and writing books. But I feel as though my creative clock is ticking. The guilt soundtrack plays mournfully in the back of my mind whenever I sit down to read, watch TV or just chill because I know that during the school year, some of that creative energy will be siphoned off for class planning, which means my well of creative energy sometimes runs dry before I sit down with my characters. So I have to make the most of June and July before they absquatulate, taking with them the longer days and adequate sleep (sort of) that allow me to access my creativity with fewer distractions.

But August? August is the collision of every aspect of my life in one crazy busy, messy month. At least this August. My daughter's summer job is winding down, so we're finally attacking some of the sorting/purging/organizing she's been talking about doing since May. This newer, leaner collection of possessions is counterbalanced (at least temporarily), however, by the acquisition of everything she will need to put her dorm room together--back-to-school shopping with a twist and a much bigger budget. 

Pixabay

We're taking one last quick family trip this month, too--a couple days in New York to see a Billy Joel concert and wander around Manhattan. Since the goal of August is to find the sweet spot that blends productive writing time with productive class planning and family time, my laptop is making the trip with us. Since I love writing on trains, whether or not it makes it out of the bag will depend on my family's chattiness and connection (or lack thereof) to electronic devices of their own, as well as our ability to nab seats that make writing possible. 

Pixabay

August also means it's time to get serious about syllabi and adding in all the fun stuff I've been collecting in a big, mostly electronic, pile all summer long. Compiling the links I sent myself all summer was a multi hour process--one that reminded me that I need to be specific in my subject lines from now on to save myself time when I harvest all those cool ideas in August and figure out where to integrate them. Still, this process got me excited about doing old things in new ways and moving my classes closer to the ideal I envision.

All of this--including back-to-school shopping, to a certain extent--is normal August stuff which has so far managed to distract me from the big August event, which is my daughter's departure for college. She finishes work this week and, next week, we have one (last) full week to enjoy each other's company, get in each other's way, finish up all the shopping, start the packing and do all the myriad things that keep popping into my head as the month progresses. I know we're not the first family to do this, or the only family in the process of doing it right now. But it's our first time, and it feels enormous. I've been so focused on the excitement of what lies ahead for her and the mechanics of getting everything together that the reality of this life change has come to me only in small snippets. 

Pixabay

It's probably better that way. Just as this busy August full of all the usual stuff (and a few surprises) has kept me focused on the big picture, where I am, admittedly, most comfortable, so has it reduced the drama leading up to the final countdown. But now, here we are, and I can feel my bravery crumbling. There aren't enough characters, articles or syllabi in sight to block the view of the bridge my daughter will be crossing. As long as I'm creating one more to-do list, checking off one more set of tasks, purchasing one more necessary item, I can live in the fog beside the bridge, knowing she's going, but not having to face it.

In just two and a half weeks, I'm going to have to face it.

Tichnor Brothers Post Card Collection
Boston Public Library
digitalcommonwealth.org

Life is a Banquet

Last weekend, I went to a college lacrosse game -- the first one I've ever been to. I know nothing about lacrosse, but last semester, I had five lacrosse players in my freshman seminar, and I wanted to get a glimpse of the sport that was such a driving force in their lives and, perhaps, even see them play.

It was a beautiful day, and the team won. None of "my kids" played, but I did see a couple of them, and I was glad I decided to step out of my comfort zone and spend a couple hours getting sunburned and doing something different.

After the game, as I headed back to my comfort zone (Starbucks), it occurred to me how many opportunities I missed when I was in college. Unless something was already in my sphere of interest, I didn't check it out. I could count on one hand the number of sporting events I attended, and I wonder now why I didn't take advantage of all my campus had to offer.

I can't go back and re-do college, and, if I'm honest, I have few regrets, and none that would warrant a do-over. But, I have a college-bound senior daughter, and it's not too late for her to benefit from my less-than-timely realizations. So, here's what I'll tell her.

Geralt via Pixabay

Do stuff. All those things you loved doing in high school? Seek out opportunities to continue doing them in college. Pack your flute and take it with you -- maybe even try out for the band. Don't assume you're not good enough. If it interests you, give it a shot.

Try stuff. All that stuff you wanted to do in high school but didn't? It's not too late. Don't assume that everyone else in that club or activity already has experience. If it interests you, check it out. See if newbies are welcome. Once you leave college, you'll pay per activity for all that fun stuff that's included in your tuition.

Go to stuff. It wasn't until I worked on a college campus that I realized how much is going on all the time. Speakers, concerts, sporting events, seminars, workshops, lectures...and from people who know what they're doing. Don't just go to class and to the library and hang out with friends. Check out all the other stuff that's going on and take advantage of it. Go to a lecture on a topic that interests you. Go watch a team play a sport you've never tried. Go listen to classical music firsthand, played by your peers. (Or better yet, grab your flute and become part of the process).

Fortunately, my daughter is already ahead of me, attending lectures and a concert and even taking a class on the same campus where I watched lacrosse. Watching the ease with which she now does these things, I realize how ready she is to take the next step in her life. While I'm sure it will be filled with more than just classes and homework and guest lectures by scholars (as it should), I hope she'll realize early on that there are myriad ways to learn outside the classroom and will make it a point to take advantage of them as she settles into the next chapter of her life.

Empty Nesting

Photo credit: Pixabay

My husband and I bought our house when we were newlyweds and my daughter wasn’t even a blip on the family radar. It was a cute house, with good bones, but it needed updating, and so we dug right in. Painting, decorating, planting flowers—the sweat equity projects that are within the budget of first time home buyers—the things that make a house a home.

For the first few years, I took on a new project every summer. Painting was my specialty, but I’ve stripped and replaced plenty of wallpaper and even tried my hand at a few craft projects. When I got pregnant, the nesting that ensued bookended the summer and temporarily increased my domesticity. I even bought a sewing machine and tested out my long-dormant sewing skills, making valences and a comforter for the nursery. 

When my daughter was small, I managed to squeeze my projects into nap time and weekends, but as she got bigger and more mobile, the projects—and my interest in them—tapered off. Later, when I had to choose between writing and home improvement projects, the former won every time. 

This fall, my daughter is heading to college. As I look around our house, the haphazardness of our home improvement projects over the past eighteen years—years spent at playgrounds and concerts and basketball games—is undeniable. The house looks tired and in need of some of the attention we lavished on it when we were young enough to spend a weekend painting without needing a weekend to recover. Lately, I’ve been lying in bed choosing paint colors for the kitchen and wondering how long it takes a 50-something person to paint a room compared to her 30-something self.

If my daughter’s bedroom project is any indication, that time frame is too embarrassing to print. Early in her high school career, we started an overly ambitious painting project in her room; we’ve yet to finish it. Busyness, allergies and waning enthusiasm collided, leaving the big room repainted (except for one wall behind a heavy piece of furniture) and the smaller space untouched. In the smaller room, horses galavant across a wallpaper border affixed to sponge painted walls, creating an ironic contrast to the trappings of teen life that are apparent everywhere else in the space.

As my daughter’s departure from her room and our house draws closer, I find myself torn between the desire to tear down the border and finally paint the walls and the realization that she won’t be in that room long enough—or often enough—to enjoy the results. Mom-guilt pricks at my conscience at the thought of sending her off to college with this years-old project still incomplete, while my practical side says to hold off and paint the room the color I want rather than the rich, dark red she chose—a color I know will be difficult to put up, more difficult to paint over and a constant reminder that the room’s long-time inhabitant no longer lives there.

Photo: Pixabay

And so I marinate in indecision, wondering how much of this has anything to do with painting at all.

I knew it was normal to nest when I was pregnant, but now I find myself wondering if empty nesting is normal, too. With time on our hands and changes ahead, does it make perfect sense to re-envision our home as we re-envision our future? Am I finally stepping up to the plate and making up for years of turning a blind eye toward all that needed to be done? 

Or, am I looking to fill time and keep busy? 

As parents of an only child, we won’t have a step-by-step transition. In August, we’ll go from being parents to being empty nesters. As the time draws closer, I wonder not only how we’ll do that, but how it’s possible that it never occurred to us before that we’d be diving off the cliff of family back into the waters of couplehood. And that those waters are likely to take some getting used to.

So I look at my house and I wonder what comes next. What’s in good shape and what needs to be replaced? What looks tired and what needs refreshing? Do we start with the inside or the outside?

And for the first time since we bought the house, I can’t ignore the metaphor.

Growing, Growing, Grown

quinnipiac.edu

Today, I'm in Connecticut with my daughter on a college visit, so I'm pulling a post from the archives. This one ran in June 2014 on "Six Children and No Theories," a community blog I wrote for WITF for a time, and since it's about milestones, it seemed about right for today, as we prepare for the next milestone.

I talk a really good game when it comes to milestones in my daughter’s life. Though I can’t believe how quickly she leapfrogs from one to the next (walking to running to a riding a bike to starting school to middle school to high school), I know that each is a necessary step on the ladder of independence, and I generally view these milestones with optimism. But today, she’s embarking on a whole new level of independence, one I’m not sure I am ready to face.

My daughter is getting her driver’s license. 

I must admit to conflicting feelings about this. To be honest, I never really minded transporting her. She's good company and we usually enjoy our time in the car together. Now that she's on the cusp of going it alone, I wonder how often we'll have those times. Not often, I imagine, and I find myself oddly unready to let go of those trips.

And then there are the practical concerns. I'm handing my child the car keys. No matter how good a driver she is (and she is good, if a bit, er, speedy), I don't know whom she'll encounter when she's on the road. I plan to adopt an approach I've dubbed "Prayerful Ostrich" -- praying a lot for her safety, and then burying my head in the sand.

Photo: Anita Peppers via Morguefile

Still, although she is sixteen and old enough to drive, with new privileges come new guidelines, guidelines my husband and I have discussed, but have not yet fully worked out. Thus far, we've told her only that there will be rules -- something I'm sure does not come as a surprise to her as most of her new privileges came with rules -- or at least guidelines. Some of our rules will reiterate what the state of Pennsylvania has to say (cell phone off, wear your seatbelt at all times, no more than one friend in the car with you, no driving after 11 pm), while others will be designed to put our minds at ease (we need to know where you are going and when you expect to be home) or reiterate common courtesies (if you're going to be late,  you need to let us know).

But setting up rules for a child on the cusp of adulthood is different than setting up rules for a toddler. Fortunately, the same concerns that have been persistent throughout her life (safety is non-negotiable, for example) still form the backbone of those rules. This license, many of my friends have warned me, is her first step toward real independence. Much as those first wobbly toddler steps signify a sea change, so does ready access to the car keys. Only this time, I can't hover and be there to catch her if she's close to a dangerous fall.

And for the first time since I watched those Lamaze videos in childbirth class, I don't know if I'm ready for this. But a big part of parenting is letting go, and allowing our kids to run ahead of us when they’re prepared to do so.

It’s just that no one told me she’d be prepared before I was.

Sometimes, the Horse is Brown

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Yesterday, we attended our last college Open House. It's not that a decision has been made, mind you; we're just reaching the end of the list of contenders. Acceptances have begun to arrive, changing the question my daughter has to answer from "where should I apply?" to "where should I go?"

This shift has colored the way we look at everything. Instead of the big picture view, where we take in as much information as possible, we're zooming in on the details, trying to decide which attributes are most important. Class size? Study abroad? Location? If we've made the trip to see the school in the first place, it has cleared the academic hurdles: Major. Languages of choice. Real world connections.

It's overwhelming. And I'm not even the one making the decision.

The urge to muzzle well-intentioned adults who promise her that she'll "know" when she finds the "right" school grew stronger (for me) with every such declaration. Though that's exactly what happens with some kids, it's not true for everyone, and tacitly encouraging my daughter to wait for something that might not happen sometimes feels like the college admissions version of waiting for a knight on a white horse. Sometimes he's a prince, and sometimes the horse is brown. Does that make him any less desirable?

If we stop holding our breath, waiting for the knight to arrive, the process is actually fun. Family trips. Conversations about the future. Glimpses of the adult my daughter wants to become.

Endless possibility.

This is, after all, the only time we'll go through this process in quite this way. Maybe I'd feel differently if I had more than one child, but I don't really want to just check this off and be done with it. As endless as the process may feel at times, it's going way too fast. May is just around the corner, and with May 1 comes a choice, one that will define the next four years of her life.

And so my daughter is taking her time, weighing her options, balancing the pros and cons. (Or dragging her feet, tuning me out, driving me crazy. Depends on the day).

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Either way, I'm glad she's taking this seriously. In her reasonably charmed life, this is the first big decision she's had to make, a dress rehearsal for all those that lie ahead. And since the only right answer is the one that's right for her, all I can do is facilitate.

And that is, after all, just my dress rehearsal for all the years that lie ahead.

Metamorphosis

Last Friday night, we bought a sofa. I was so impressed by our quick decision-making that I posted this momentous event on Facebook.

At the time, I thought the alacrity with which we'd made our decision was the momentous part, but now that I've had time to consider the implications more carefully, I realize that's not what was momentous at all.

When we first bought this house, my husband and I were newlyweds. We spent the first couple of years pouring sweat equity into this, our first home. The downstairs bedroom was first an empty room, then an office. For the first few years, it was furnished with the leftovers that didn't belong anywhere else in the house and, as with any other "spare" room, it collected more than its fair share of junk.

The first piece of furniture we purchased specifically for the office was a desk. It was a cheap, fiberboard unit with a file drawer and its primary function was to hold the computer and my writing files. I worked at that desk most Fridays, putting words on the screen, then printing them out and sending them to magazines with the requisite SASE. I wrote columns for a local paper and a regional magazine at that desk, too, and set up my first ever email account on AOL while my husband was away on a business trip.

After my daughter was born, the desk began to collect dust and the room began to collect detritus. Eventually we cleared everything out (except a lateral file cabinet that was too heavy to move), put the desk and the computer in the basement, carpeted the floor and made the office into a playroom. Shortly thereafter, we looked for the next room-specific piece of furniture -- a cushioned chair so that grown-ups had somewhere to sit in the playroom, whether it was to read a story or take a break from the floor. It was the only thing in the room that retained an office aura, and it was my reading perch for grown-up books on quite a few occasions.

What I wish it looked like - LOL!
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When my daughter was in elementary school, we sold the chair (which housed stuffed animals more often than people) at a yard sale to make room for a desk for her. A corner desk, per her specifications, which became more clutter catcher than homework space.  Eventually it, too, departed the room like its fiberboard cousin, only it went straight to the curb. In pieces.

When my parents got recliners for their TV room, we inherited the chairs they replaced. I loved those chairs -- still do -- and so we brought them home to move into the office/playroom, beginning its transition into something more like a family room. But, in typical Cape Cod (house, not town in Massachusetts) fashion, the doorway was too small for the chairs, so they were relocated to the basement. Eventually a television stand (also a hand-me-down from my parents), an ottoman and new storage units (of the cube and bin variety) made it into the room to corral the clutter. When I retired, the oversized pillows I'd used in my office did their time as flexible seating for a while, until we finally broke down and bought a cheap (and I do mean cheap -- the fiberboard desk was an architectural masterpiece by comparison) sofa at Target.

Then last Friday night, we bought a new sofa. The old sofa was stained with nail polish (wish I could blame that on my daughter, but I can't) and had a broken arm. We found a sofa that was inexpensive, but definitely a step up -- one with leather cushions and reclining seats -- at the first place we looked. Fastest furniture purchase ever, and one destined to assist the room in assuming its new identity.

The office/playroom/man cave, however, retains traces of all its incarnations. The lateral file from its turn as an office. Plastic drawer units, inexpensive fiberboard cupboards and closet shelves that still hold outgrown toys and craft materials and a storage ottoman filled with Webkinz. Body pillows covered in animal prints, and two pink giraffe print tables with very short legs rescued from my office at an elementary school.

This summer, we will go through the bins and shelves (again) and try to part with a few more toys, games and outgrown supplies, making room for whatever comes next. Two decades have passed since the room was an office, and it's been more than a decade since Barbies and Polly Pockets littered the carpeted floor. The tables and pillows can stay as long as they earn their keep and stay out of the way, but it's possible that the new sofa will render them superfluous.

In two years, the toddler who played on that floor will head to college to decorate a room of her own
that will be part bedroom, part office and part hangout, leaving behind more memories than the office/playroom/man cave has space to hold. That thought makes me sad, and a little more inclined to hold on to the toys and games still tucked away in the closet, but holding on to them won't forestall her journey, nor should it.

So perhaps I should just look forward to the room's next incarnation, enjoying the view from our new sofa.