Hugging It Out

When one of your kids is getting ready to move halfway across the country, hugs are at a premium. I know I'm blessed to live in the era of Skype, FaceTime, and texting; an era where communication is fast and cheap. When we lived in Germany twenty years ago, my phone calls back home were relegated to a once a week, fast-talking half hour that tacked $150 onto our monthly phone bills and made my time overseas an emotional challenge. I know that Colorado isn't Germany and 2014 isn't the early 90's; I'll have ample, inexpensive (often free) opportunities to keep up with my son's comings and goings. Technology has taken care of that.

What it hasn't done is figure out a way to hug someone who's residing in another time zone.

So, for the next twelve days my son had better be prepared. He's going to be hugged when he wakes up, when he puts his dishes in the sink, when he makes himself a grilled cheese sandwich, and when he signs off at night. He's going to get hugged before he goes out and when he comes back. And he might even get a couple for no reason at all.

Except for the reason that in twelve days, I won't be able to hug him at all.

Eighteen Days and Counting

For the first time, a Blackhawks sweater (notice, I did not say jersey. I don't want anyone calling me out on that one) has brought me to tears. The waterworks had nothing to do with the fact that the team recently missed the chance to bring home The Stanley Cup for the second year in a row, although I was pretty sad about that back in June. No, the reason that Toews sweater got me teary-eyed was the fact that it was peaking out of one of the boxes taking up space in our dining room; a box bound for Colorado.

I knew my youngest was leaving; he's been talking about it for months. I just didn't really know it until the moment I saw that Indian head logo staring up at me. I can see now that those boxes mean business. Those boxes, including the one that has "Colorado, bitch" written on it, are soon going to be filled with my son's belongings and transported one thousand miles away. They are also making it next to impossible to walk through my dining room without bawling.

So, now the countdown has begun. We have eighteen days left until he backs his Mazda out of our driveway for the last time. (Yes, I know, he's not going to Mongolia; he'll be back for visits.) We have eighteen days to squeeze in as much "in person" time with him as possible before settling for "Face Timing" with him for the foreseeable future. We have two and a half weeks until I have to wave goodbye to my baby.

I don't want you to think that I'm one of those psycho moms that's going to hang on his leg begging him not to go. (Okay, the thought has occurred to me but I know it wouldn't do any good.) I'm rational enough to  know this is a great thing for him. He has loved Colorado since he first set foot in the state when he was just a teenager. If you love your children you want them to be happy, right? And I am happy for him. Really. But I honestly don't know what I'm going to do that first morning when it finally hits me that he's gone; that I won't be able to give him a hug any time I feel like it; that I'm not going to hear him whistling as he gets ready for work. I also don't know what I'm going to do when hockey season starts and I have to watch the games without him and that sweater.

I'm pretty sure I'm going to survive his move. I just wish I didn't have to.

I Hate Cars

I was just doing what I was supposed to do. According to that little sticker on my windshield, it was time for an oil change. Being the consequent car owner that I am (or that my husband "encourages" me to be), I picked up the phone and made an appointment to get my vehicle's nasty, six month-old fluids removed. I almost didn't mind the fact that I would have to give up a couple of hours of my time to do it since I had a $20 coupon that would bring the cost down to the price of a pair of socks.

Or so I thought.

My husband and I were killing some time walking around town when the call came. Thinking it was just the obligatory call to let me know my beloved chariot was ready, I was blindsided by the news that during the mechanic's courtesy check (who the heck authorized that?) he had discovered one of my front springs had broken. After lots of discussion about my suspension system, struts, and a possible punctured tire should I hit a pothole, my friendly neighborhood repairman "recommended" that the offending parts be replaced. But, naturally, that was not the end of it because if you're going to replace one side of your car's suspension system, you have to replace the other side because you wouldn't want to drive around with one side of your car higher than the other, now would you?

Ten hours later I was $1200 poorer driving an eleven year-old car with the ride of a brand new SUV. Scratch that - I was actually $1500 poorer as my husband and I did a lot of shopping and eating as we slowly made our way back home. I guess I have to look on the bright side. The broken spring didn't blow out our tire on our recent trip back from Kentucky. We have a Firestone credit card that allows us to pay for the repair over six months without interest. And I got a pair of really cute shorts and two tops for less than fifty bucks at Talbots' 60% off sale.

Oh, and I almost forgot. I got to use that $20 coupon before it expired.

The Story Goes On

My grandson won't make his arrival for a couple of months but he sure is making his presence known. My daughter's ever-expanding baby bump announces her impending motherhood to everyone she meets and is a constant source of amazement to this grandmother-to-be. I'm so excited about this new road that I'll soon be traveling but it's a little overwhelming seeing someone who once lived inside of me have someone now living inside of her.

I know this is how it's supposed to go but she's my baby. How can she possibly have a baby? I look through old photos and swear it was just a couple of years ago when she was jumping into the backyard wading pool or playing with Barbies. But when I feel the life growing in her tummy and I see the woman she has become, I know those days are very far away.

Maybe every mother feels this way when the nest is finally empty. Maybe we've spent so much time and energy raising our children that it's tough to fully reconcile the transformation from child to adult. Maybe those memories are so vivid, so special that we just don't want to let them go.

Or maybe, just maybe, that's why God created grandchildren.

Southern Comfort

Every now and then you hear stories about couples/families hopping into an RV for an extended road trip across the country. While I can understand the allure, I'm not sure a year in the back of a trailer is in my future. That's not to say I don't appreciate a good road trip. When the kids were little, we used to pack up a steady supply of diversions (later a small TV/VCR combo - hey, it's fun to travel with your kids but a little Ninja Turtles or Full House goes a long way) and hit the road. I'd be willing to bet that my offspring remember these trips with more fondness than that beach vacation in Mexico or even the obligatory week at Disney.

Now that my husband and I are on our own, the dynamics of our beloved road trips have changed but the surprising moments of joy they provide haven't. Take last week. The two of us packed up the car for a trip to Kentucky with a dual purpose - to work on the house we still own in the western part of the state and to attend a wedding in Lexington.We spent the first four days scrapping windows, painting bedrooms, and clearing brush (well, my hubby got the better part of that job) and the last three days cleaning ourselves up sufficiently to attend the festivities of a ritzy wedding in the heart of the horse capital of the world.

When you head south from the Chicago area, it isn't long before you enter into an alternate universe. People get a whole lot more friendly, the "y'alls" start flowing, and sausage gravy and biscuits shows up on every restaurant menu.  While I can't imagine adding the latter to my diet, I love everything else that goes with a visit to the South. Whenever we had any kind of difficulty, from having enough quarters for my daily USA Today treat to picking out a gallon of paint to finding a place to eat, the residents of Kentucky couldn't do enough for us. We never encountered a rude sales clerk, a surly driver, or a pouty waitress. I'm not saying they don't exist south of the Mason/Dixon line but you sure couldn't prove it by our experiences. That's why, after a week of "yes, m'ams" and "no, sirs", I'm missing the polite, caring, go-out-of-your-way-for-your-neighbors attitude that permeates the South. I'm missing the slower, take-time-to-enjoy-your-life pace. And I'm especially missing the sound of that twang that infiltrates every syllable of a Kentuckian's speech.

Although my husband swears I bring a little of that home with me every time we go down there. I don't know what the heck he's talkin' about but y'all go out there and have a nice day, okay.