Boyz to Men

I have to admit I'm not handling this very well. I thought I'd be so happy to have my children move out but now that the first one has actually done it, I'm spending more time crying than celebrating. Maybe it's because it's my son. Unlike my daughter, he never was very demonstrative or communicative. He'd spend days in his room playing video games or talking to his friends, venturing out only to grab a Gatorade and a slice of pizza. If I was lucky, he'd ask me something about Sports Center or throw me a compliment about what I'd made for dinner. If I wasn't, he'd pass me in the hallway without uttering anything more than a couple of grunts. But, every now and then, he'd surprise me. He'd tackle me with a giant hug, reassuring me that I was the greatest mom on earth. Okay. It was usually when he wanted something but I didn't care.

Now that I can no longer find him hanging out in his room, I'm having trouble adapting to our new relationship. Since we work together occasionally, I still get to see him on a regular basis but it's always so impersonal. If he was uncomfortable showing emotion when he was in the privacy of his own home, you can imagine how much he hates it under the glaring eye of non-family members. I'm trying as hard as I can to give him time; to honor his privacy. I remind myself that he still loves me; that we'll get back to a close, connected relationship one of these days.

I just hate the meandering path we're on getting there.

It's Only a Game

It's taken me a couple of days to bring myself to talk about it. As anyone who reads this blog regularly knows, I'm a bit of a sports nut. Okay, more than a bit. Instead of January, February, March, etc., my calendar reads football, Australian Open, hockey, The Masters, Wimbledon; well, you get the picture. I support all the Chicago teams but I am an especially rabid Bears fan. Unfortunately.

Sunday was a sad, sad day for Bears fans. Hoping against hope that this unbelievably lucky streak that they've been on all season would hold until they made it to the Super Bowl, I invited my entire family to share in the glorious victory over the hated Packers. We didn't get the victory. We didn't even get any points on the board until the second half. What we did get was an exciting (although totally predictable) ending. We also got acquainted with our third string quarterback. Seems like a nice guy, which is more than I can say for our first stringer.

The day wasn't a total loss. My family brought tons of food and lots of alcoholic beverages. There was even a giant chocolate cake to drown my sorrows in. They're a fun group; they refuse to let anyone wallow. If I have to have my dreams crushed, these are the people I want to have talking me off the ledge. As they pulled out of the driveway, I thought about how much worse it could be.

I could be dreaming about the Cubs winning the World Series.

Another Match

For the second time in a week, I played tennis with my son. Due to a lack of available subs at the tennis club where we both work, we found ourselves pressed into service to even out the courts. Nothing unusual about that. We're both paid to play tennis occasionally, one of our job's best perks. What was surprising about this particular circumstance was my son's desire to play on the same court. While my insecurity and general neurosis led me to believe that he would rather play with complete strangers than risk being embarrassed by his mom, I was thrilled when he wanted to jockey some of the players around to other courts in order for us to play together.

Our opponents, two friendly, accommodating ladies, begged him to "play nice". They could see that his natural athleticism and power would be overwhelming weapons if he decided to unleash them. They needn't have worried. He had no intention of beating up on them. He saved that for the woman who gave birth to him.

His first serve to me was a rocket that hit me in the stomach. I knew it was coming. I've known this kid for twenty-two years. I knew he couldn't resist showing off. He wasn't about to play his regular game against the other ladies but knocking mom on her keester, that was completely acceptable. Better yet, it was fun.

We played for an hour and a half. One third of the time we were teammates; two thirds of the time, opponents. He never did hit me again; he just ran me around the court with wicked backhands and well-placed lobs. I didn't play particularly well. I guess I was trying too hard; trying to make him proud of his old mom. Maybe that's just one more thing we have in common.

One Little Yellow Ball

The older I get the more I realize how life's small moments keep us going. Last week, when I wrote my last blog, I was completely derailed by my son abruptly moving out of the house. At the time, it seemed like the end of the world. In a way, I guess it was. It was the end of the world as I knew it; the world of two parents and two offspring sharing a house. Although this blog clearly states that my goal is to get my children out of my house, this was all too sudden; too tense; too sad.

Today, I played tennis. I smacked the hell out of that fuzzy sphere and you know what? I feel better. For the first time in weeks I played halfway decent tennis. That alone made me feel good. Once you've passed the half-century mark, any day you come off the court without injuring something is a good day. When you win the match on top of it, actually contributing some rocking shots against opponents ten to fifteen years younger than you are, other problems fade away. At least for a few minutes. I got a great workout and had a lot of laughs. There's not much in life that's better than that.

But the best part of this story is the half hour before my match. My son, who also works at the tennis club, decided to rent a court with a ball machine. After playing for a half hour, he invited me to join him. We hit with the machine until the last ball was hurled at us and then stood on opposite sides of the net. We traded ground strokes, volleys and overheads. We teased each other about missed shots. We laughed. The tension of last week was nowhere to be found. He may not live here anymore but for thirty minutes on the court, I got my boy back.

This Sucks

In one of my earlier posts I mentioned how I had dreaded my children's teenage years. Looking back, they were a piece of cake compared to what we're dealing with now. Trying to help your adult children find their way in the world seems so much more difficult in 2011 than it ever was when I was younger. When I was their age, I had already bought my own car. I had already rented an apartment. I easily found employment. I had the tools to make it on my own. Even though I came from a family where much was done for me at home, I managed to handle laundry, grocery shopping and bill paying without too much trouble. More importantly, I did it without alienating the two people who had brought me into this world.

Is it asking too much to expect your twenty-something children to leave the nest without disconnecting completely? Is it unreasonable to expect them to treat you with love and respect as they walk out the door? Is it naive to think they might miss you as much as you're going to miss them? I thought I knew the answers to those questions. Today, I'm not so sure.

The Parents Are Coming, The Parents Are Coming

One of the worst things about getting older is the fact that your parents are getting older too. After attending the funeral of the mother of one of my co-worker's, I spent this weekend reflecting on just how lucky I am to have both of my parents in my life. At eighty, they are still relatively healthy, able to participate in most family activities (okay, bowling is out) and live just a short distance from our home. They are two of the most generous, kind, intelligent people you would ever want to meet and I know how blessed I am to have them swimming in my gene pool.

How do you ever let such special people know how much you appreciate them? I have no idea. There is no way I can ever repay them for the loving, secure foundation they provided me. There is no way I can ever make up for all the money spent, hours worked or all the other sacrifices they have made to ensure my health and happiness. Now that I have adult children who are struggling to find their place in the world, I realize more than ever what a great combination of love and discipline; support and encouragement my own parents were able to provide. Now that I think of it, I'm getting a little angry. Why did they have to go and set the bar so damn high? It just makes the rest of us look bad.

Since it's impossible for me to truly show them how grateful I am to have had them as parents, I'm opting for doing the next best thing - feeding them. Every Sunday they have a standing invitation for dinner accompanied by HD baseball/football/golf/whatever. The sport isn't important; it's just an excuse to get them to come down for a few hours of conversation and gluttony. It's not always fine dining (yesterday it was Sloppy Joe's and pound cake) but they always make me feel as if it is. Great. Just one more thing I have to thank them for.

Truth or Consequence

Last week I wrote about a particularly difficult incident with one of my kids. When your children are in their twenties and still living at home, it's hard not to be affected by their mistakes. This wasn't anything life or jail threatening but it did hurt. The hardest part was being lied to and dealing with the loss of trust that will be affecting our relationship for some time to come.

Two days after our family meltdown, our son left for Colorado. It was a trip that had been planned for weeks but the act of rewarding himself with a vacation when things were so broken seemed ill-advised and wrong. A friend advised me to warn him that if he went on this trip, he would have to find another place to live when he came home. I couldn't do it. Maybe I should have. Maybe he needed to finally learn that there are negative consequences to negative behavior but I just couldn't do it. Maybe he needed to man up and accept responsibility for his actions by giving up something he really wanted to do. He chose not to.

So, who's got the most to learn here?

Car Trouble

When I was sixteen, all I wanted was the freedom of having my own wheels. Growing up with a mother who didn't drive, I was first in line at the DMV the morning of my birthday. When I failed the test the first time around (the tester was a Nazi who hated teenagers), I was inconsolable. Two weeks later, when I passed with flying colors, I couldn't wait until I drained every last penny out of my savings account to buy my first car - a Toyota Corolla for $2400. Brand new with automatic transmission, no less.

As I am now paying a repair bill that almost equals the cost of my first vehicle fresh off the showroom floor, I have changed my mind about cars. I hate them. I hate paying for them, taking care of them, cleaning them, insuring them; I hate everything about them. I wish I could live without one but as long as I chose to live in suburbia, I know that's impossible.

The source of my latest rant against America's chosen mode of transportation stems from having to bring my car in three times in the last two weeks for the same problem; a chirping noise that sounds like a flock of chicks has moved in under my hood. I've left it overnight twice (it only makes the noise when the engine is cold) and it has been diagnosed as a faulty belt. Replaced twice, the chicks are still in residence. In addition, the check engine light when on today and the terrorists running the repair shop want to charge me another $100 to diagnose the problem. They don't have to. I already know what the problem is. I bought a car.

Back to Reality

Well, the holidays are finally over. Except for a couple of returns I've yet to make, my trips to Marshalls and T.J. Maxx have come to an end. The cookie tins that used to occupy an entire countertop have been whittled down to one lonely canister housing the last of the sugar dusted reindeer. Thank God. The tree and its decorative cousins are still around but their days are numbered. Now it's time to return to winter reality in the Midwest.

I hate January and February. There, I said it. Long, icy, frigid, snowy months with nothing to show for them except Valentine's Day, a lame holiday designed to make women fatter and men feel inadequate. Once the holidays, full of parties, family get-togethers and food, are over, I have absolutely no use for the rest of winter. I think someone in my family must have mated at some point with a grizzly, as all I want to do this time of year is put on my pajamas and hibernate. (Okay, I know grizzlies don't possess pajamas but, hey, it's cold and that's the only analogy my frozen brain could come up with).

On a positive note, I am encouraged that I have actually fulfilled my 2009 new year resolution by completing the first draft of my book. While I hunker down at home, the editing should (if I stop procrastinating) keep me busy until Spring allows me to venture outside. Until then, I'll have to content myself with the fact that the Bears are in the playoffs. Now there's something to look forward to.

The Deepest Cut

I was hoping to start the New Year with optimism. After finishing the first draft of my first novel in November, I was sure that 2011 was going to be the year; the year of no excuses, the year of fulfilling long held resolutions, the year our family was going to put past difficulties behind us. Instead, the first few days of 2011 have been some of the most challenging moments of my life as a parent.

What do you do when the people you love most in the world let you down? What do you do when the children you've nurtured and supported for more than two decades completely demolish your sense of trust, causing you to question every parenting move you've ever made? If you're expecting me to answer those questions, you're out of luck. After several bottles of wine and a lot of tears I don't have any answers. When your children make mistakes, it's easy to remember your own youth and have compassion. When they compound those mistakes by lying to your face over and over again, taking advantage of all the love and trust you've freely given, it's not so easy.

So, today I sat in the upper balcony in church and prayed for understanding. I asked God to help me get through this latest parenting hurdle with as much love and forgiveness as He can send my way. What I really want to do is change the locks, confiscate their cell phones and car keys and send them out into the real world to fend for themselves. Hopefully, my prayers will be answered with my offspring making amends in a concrete way that allows them to continue to have a roof over their heads without sacrificing my sanity and integrity. Then again, God may answer with the toughest response of all. He might agree with me.