See No Evil

I was watching the Olympics the other night (okay, every night) when the American men were trying to qualify for the team gymnastic final. Up in the crowd, with perfectly manicured fingernails placed directly over her eyes, was the mother of one of the participants. One of the cameras stayed on her as her son performed and when they replayed the footage, it turned out that the mom had never uncovered her eyes until she heard the crowd applauding. Hearing the all-clear signal, she knew it was safe to look and immediately started clapping wildly. She knew by the crowd's reaction that nothing terrible had happened, nothing terrible was going to happen. It was safe. For now.

Any mom can relate; we all know exactly what John Orozco's mom was going through. There are so many times we have to watch when our kids are in the middle of something that we know has a pretty good chance of ending badly. You want to help but you can't. You want to intervene but you shouldn't. You want to advise but . . . what the hell, you know they're not going to listen anyway.

So, we sit there like that mom in the stands with our hands half over our eyes, trying hard not to look until the danger has passed. But Mrs. Orozco had something we non-Olympic moms don't have.

She knew when it was safe to look.

Regrets, I Have a Few

Once your children are grown, there's a lot of time to reflect on what kind of a parent you were. I always knew that I'd be good with all the baby and toddler stuff. And I was. My tough time came in adolescence and beyond. That's when it was important to be consistent and have logical, enforceable consequences and I wasn't very good at either of those.

Despite my shortcomings, my kids have turned out pretty well. They do remind me regularly that it's my fault that they don't know how to handle a lot of the "adult" challenges that are coming their way because I usually bailed them out of difficulties when they were younger. To this, I say "be thankful that the good times lasted as long as they did".

I was a child of the Sixties. My mom stayed at home and took care of everything. The most I had to do for myself was grab a bowl of cereal and occasionally make my bed. With a mother that was the epitome of the Betty Crocker housewife, there was little I could do that lived up to her standards so, like any smart teenager, I screwed up everything she asked me to do so that she would stop asking. And she did.  My kids didn't have it quite as easy but looking back, I wish I had been tougher about enforcing basic rules like cleaning their rooms, doing homework right after school and helping with after dinner clean-up. I just couldn't seem to stick to any of the chore/homework/reward plans I was continually dreaming up. The bottom line was punishment for them usually translated into punishment for me and, sooner rather than later, I let them off the hook.

But, you know what? I'm done apologizing. I loved my kids within an inch of their lives and that ought to count for something. Okay, I never made you cook us dinner - go buy a cookbook. Okay, I didn't make you do your own laundry - throw the red towel in with the white shirt and learn the way the rest of us did. Okay, I didn't get you a dog. Well, that one I really am sorry about but what I can do now? I know. As soon as they get real jobs, with a real place to live, I'll trek down to the shelter and pick out the cutest pup in the place. That way they can practice on a pet before they get around to raising my future grandchildren.

Maybe they'll make fewer mistakes than I did. But I'm not betting on it.

Married Without Children

From the moment you bring your baby home from the hospital, you realize that your life has changed. You can no longer have a spur of the moment date (unless your parents are feeling particularly benevolent), you can no longer sleep whenever or however long you might want to, and you can't take a vacation from September through May. In short, you can no longer be the center of your own universe. Then, one day, far off in the future, you have a chance to reclaim your life. You realize that no one is going to pull you out of bed to make pancakes (my husband learned long ago not to try that one again), there are no back to school supplies to purchase, and you can eat a cupcake at four in the afternoon without having to share. I've discovered that these are all very good things.

This weekend, my husband and I spontaneously headed to a ten a.m. showing of a romantic comedy at our local movie theater, followed by an alfresco lunch (okay, it was Culvers but still), and an afternoon of returning hastily purchased items to their original owners. We also took advantage of last minute (free) tickets to Wrigley Field and still managed to put in an appearance at a college graduation party on our way home. When our kids were little, there were months I didn't spend as much time with my husband as I did in these past two days.

There are still times, when I see an adorable toddler in the mall or when I walk past my credenza filled with framed images of my own two sweet babies, I miss the past. Then, there are days like the last two when I see the possibilities still ahead of me. The end of full-time motherhood has given me a chance to discover new interests (buon giorno italiano), embrace new challenges (still working on that novel), and rediscover relationships that all too often took a back seat to the demands of parenthood.

I'm not naive. I know I'll be mourning the loss of my full-time job for awhile. But, even though a pretty big door has closed, I have to say, I'm starting to enjoy the view out the window.

What Goes Around . . .

I've been using this blog to do a lot of complaining about the fact that my son hasn't been quick to pick up a phone and let me know how things are going now that he's moved out. Oh, sure, because we work at the same tennis club, I see him a couple of times a week but that's not exactly the place to have a heart to heart talk. If anything, it makes things more confusing. It's been more than strange to hear him call me by my first name (can't drop that businesslike demeanor that he's so proud of) and even stranger to have him walk out the door without getting the hug I've been so used to receiving any time we've said goodbye in the past. But all this sensitivity about his lack of communication got me thinking. How often do I call my own mother?

Now in her eighties, my mom has made a habit out of not interfering in her children's lives. She was actually happy for me when I got a chance to live overseas for a few years. She didn't whine about how lonely she was going to be or try to talk me out of leaving. She didn't pack up her things and find an apartment she could rent in Knightsbridge. No. She talked to me once a week and used the opportunity to visit a part of the world she had never seen before. Her whole adult life was lived as a mom and yet she was able to step back and let her daughters fly the nest without making us feel bad for doing so. She's there when we need her, doesn't offer advice unless we ask for it and tries not to guilt us into spending time with her. Sounds like something I should be shooting for.

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.