Size Matters

Yesterday, I was reminded that I'm not the only one going through this whole empty-nester thing. Enjoying a beautiful late summer morning with the Sunday Tribune, I found a compatriot soul in John Kass. He's the Tribune writer who holds the coveted page two spot where he editorializes on life in Chicago. I've been moved by his pieces on gun violence and entertained by his dissection of Illinois politicians and read his musings whenever I get the chance. But this time, it wasn't his column detailing his empty nest journey that caught my eye but an image accompanying the text. It was a picture of a lonely quart of milk standing sentry in an empty refrigerator. It looked just like the one I recently bought. (Except my fridge didn't look half as clean.  Those out-of-date condiments and leftovers that should have gone out in Thursday's trash collection take up a lot of room.)

I had never bought a quart of milk before last week. Even when I was single, I bought a gallon. I used to drink tons of the stuff, pouring it over daily cereal or downing it after late-night chocolate chip cookies. And the kids? They used to drink enough to get me occasionally thinking about the benefits of tying Bessie up in the back yard. But now that I've cut back on carbs (good-bye, Mini-Wheats; hello, veggie omelets) and taken up drinking tea with my greatly reduced sweets consumption, and my dairy-loving offspring have checked into other accommodations, a gallon of milk wouldn't stand a chance of ending up anywhere other than the sink.

Unfortunately, my husband is no help in this department. Born and raised in Europe, he finds it odd that anyone past the age of twelve finds milk remotely palatable. (Even Kate Hudson in that "Got milk?" campaign couldn't sway him.) And he wouldn't dream of putting anything less than Half and Half in his coffee.

I wouldn't mind downsizing so much except I hate paying so much more for so much less. When I know that I can get a gallon of milk at Costco for $2.38 it kills me to pay some grocery store $1.68 for a quart. It goes against every fiber of my being to give up a bargain just because my tax deductions have flown the coop. Thank God it won't impact my purchases of toilet paper (we're set until 2017) or laundry detergent (ditto) and I just bought a bottle of Shout that should take me to the grave but those damn perishables are another story. Maybe I just need to stand outside Costco with my gallon of milk, my three dozen eggs, my four pounds of strawberries and a few empty containers.

If I can find three other empty-nesters, I should be able to turn a nice profit on the deal.

The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly

After almost a month of empty-nesting, I've decided that there are a few positives. Like:

•  No empty toilet paper rolls at the most inopportune time
•  Doing laundry that does not contain seventeen bath towels
•  Chocolate that sticks around longer than twenty-four hours
•  There are no "I meant to wash them but I forgot" dishes in the sink
•  No Gatorade or Power Bars mysteriously showing up in the Costco shopping cart
•  Not having to harass offspring for payment of above
•  My Cheetos are right where I left them
•  Not having to get the attention of someone perpetually wearing headphones
•  Having an extra bed to offer to a Margarita-imbibing friend
•  Knowing whether or not my remaining one and only roommate will be there for dinner
•  Not fighting over the rapid disappearance of water bottles and Keurig cups
•  Finding more than a spoonful of vanilla ice cream in the carton
•  Not finding empty containers of anything

I'm sure I've forgotten a few others and as time goes on, it's a safe bet we'll discover a few more. (Sex on the living room floor? Who am I kidding? I can't even sit down on the living room floor.) We just have to get through this period of adjustment. And, while I appreciate all of the above, right this minute nothing seems to make up for one thing:

•  Skype hasn't figured out how to let its users give each other a hug

 

Dinner for Six

It's not often that I can corral our two kids and their significant others for a night out but last night, I decided to take advantage of the fact that our son is leaving and guilt everybody into a dinner at Olive Garden. I know what you're thinking. "You had a chance to have a dinner out with your family, the last one you're going to have for the foreseeable future, and you picked Olive Garden?" Well, here's the thing. I knew I had to shoot for a place that would be relatively quick (for my son), relatively inexpensive (for my hubby), and relatively delicious (for my pregnant daughter). And I really didn't care. As long as we were all together for a couple of hours (and I didn't have to cook or clean up), I could have cared less about the menu.

We met up at six. The kids surprised me with a shadow box of three hysterical photos of the two of them holding large letters spelling out the word M-O-M. After I stopped crying, we drank some wine (at least I did) and ate our breadsticks. We talked. We ate some more breadsticks. And we laughed. A lot.

After a couple of hours, it was time to hand over our coupons and pay the bill. It was time for my son and his girlfriend to do some more packing and time for my daughter to go home and put her feet up. I wish it could have lasted a little longer but I was happy to take what I could get; happy that everyone had made the time to get together to share one more memorable evening with one another.

Hey, I know no one is dying. I know Denver isn't the other side of the moon; that there'll be many more chances to get together to share special evenings with my family. But I also know that things are changing.

And I have to be grateful for right now.

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.

Period of Adjustment

You would think that someone who has been writing a blog about moving out of the motherhood for four years would be welcoming the permanent exit of one her children with relief and gratitude. And such a person might be out there. It just isn't me.

I miss her.

And while I know she hasn't shipped off to Siberia or chosen to live her life without the benefit of electronic communication, she has packed up the last of her belongings and left the nest to move in with some guy she keeps referring to as her "husband".

Okay, I know this guy is something special but where was he when she was throwing up spaghetti at 2 am, huh? Where was he when she had a science project that was due in twenty-four hours? Where was he during those awkward middle school years? Or rebellious high school days? That's right. Nowhere in sight. And now, after we've done all the hard work, he comes along and snatches the finished product right out from under our noses.

I miss her.

Their new apartment is adorable, decorated with wedding gifts and pilfered items from both of their previous places of residence. She calls me regularly with questions about cooking. She sends me funny e-mails about Breaking Bad. She posts her latest photos on Facebook. It's all wonderful and I'm honestly beyond thrilled that she's found someone to share her life with; someone who makes her happier than I've seen her in a very, very long time.

But I still miss her.

Bye, Bye, Birdie

I wonder if mother birds have any moments of regret as they push their little ones out of the nest. Are they enjoying their morning worms wondering if their babies will ever fly back to visit them? Are they flitting from tree to tree, secretly worrying that their offspring will disappear, never bothering to give them a call except when they're running out of birdseed? They must be. Human beings can't be the only species cursed to feel the desolation of watching their child move out. That just wouldn't be fair.

Today, my sister had to help her son pack up his humble belongings and watch him head off to his new residence five hours and a couple of states away. This wasn't the first time she had to say goodbye; he graduated from an out-of-state school. But this was different. This time, he wouldn't be coming home for Spring Break; this time, he wouldn't be back for the summer. Nothing in this life is forever but he had signed a lease; he had accepted a job offer. This felt permanent. And my poor sister couldn't take it.

As I tried to comfort her, reassuring her that he wasn't moving that far; that he would be back for visits, I couldn't even buy what I was selling. I knew this sucked. I knew that it was beyond painful for her to welcome her college graduate back for a year of breakfast conversations, shared dinners, and late night talks only to have to say goodbye again.

We spent a long time on the phone trying to remind ourselves that this was what was supposed to happen; that this was the natural outcome of our jobs as mothers. We spent more than a few minutes congratulating each other for having raised some pretty terrific human beings; some remarkable people who were destined for great things. By the end of the conversation, we had come to one conclusion.

Turning out responsible, productive adults into the world may be what we're all shooting for but watching them fly the coop is definitely for the birds.

Bumps in the Road

Yesterday was a particularly bumpy ride on my way out of the motherhood. Can't say that anything major precipitated this emotional meltdown other than a less than perfect phone call with my son but that seems to be the pattern. The act of letting go of the reins of full-time motherhood is a dicey operation. Sometimes you're able to steer your way around the potholes and sometimes you're not.

Expecting your grown up male child to keep you informed of what's going on in his life is a little like peace in the Middle East. You want it to happen with all of your heart and soul but know there's not a chance in hell of it actually taking place. So while I think I'm asking for something completely reasonable, he sees it as an invasion of his privacy. While I think I'm just trying to forge the new and improved version of our relationship, he thinks I'm trying to keep him a child forever. I honestly don't think that's true but I did underestimate how hard it was going to be to let go.

The day did end on a happy note when he and his girlfriend showed up on our doorstep with dessert. I tried to keep the conversation light. He gave me extra hugs. I didn't pry or give advice. He brought chocolate. We're getting there.