Yesterday was supposed to be the day. The weather was beautiful, my husband and I were both available, and I had 9/14/14 in the "guess the baby's arrival date" pool. It was a done deal; especially after our daughter called before nine to let us know they were heading to the hospital.
So why am I still grandchild-less?
The hospital gave the usual song and dance as they sent my kid packing. "Go for a walk; call us when contractions are stronger; he's not quite ready."
Not quite ready? What kind of passive/aggressive diva (can a boy be a diva?) behavior is that?
Obviously, this child has no idea how many people are breathlessly waiting to meet him. He has no clue how many people are chomping at the bit to shower him with love and affection (and trips to Toys R Us). He can't begin to imagine the fun he's going to have once he gets a load of the crazy family he's about to be born into. If he did, he wouldn't be hunkered down in that claustrophobic nightmare he calls home and he would get his cute little butt (head first, if you please) out here.
His new digs are ready. His two sets of first-time grandparents are ready. And his mother is really ready.
I hate to say this but it looks like somebody has a little selfish streak in him.
Monday, September 15, 2014
Monday, September 8, 2014
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 Those out-of-date condiments and leftovers that should have gone out in Thursday's trash collection take up a lot of room.)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.
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.
Tuesday, September 2, 2014
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
- Skype hasn't figured out how to let its users give each other a hug
Monday, August 25, 2014
Sitcom Mom
Anyone who has been reading this blog for awhile knows that I have an affection for a couple of current TV moms, namely Frankie Heck of The Middle and Beverly Goldberg of The Goldbergs. Not only do I think they're two of the funniest depictions of motherhood available for your viewing pleasure, I also think they're consistently an honest representation of the inner thoughts and feelings, (good, bad, and certifiable) that come with being a mom.
Until Frankie and Bev came along, I had never seen myself in past TV matriarchs. Roseanne was way too caustic and crude. Carol Brady was entirely too chipper (and sported a haircut that no one could identify with). And Edith Bunker was too passive. I did throw my chips in with Debra Barone (like Frankie, another Patricia Heaton role) of Everybody Loves Raymond for awhile but, as the series went on, she developed a nasty edge that broke the bond. (But if you haven't seen the PMS episode, check that out of your local library. It should be required viewing for all married couples.)
I'm not saying that I agree with all of Frankie and Bev's choices but watching Frankie run down to the field after she thinks her son is hurt in a football game or Bev, mournfully sniffing her children's baby blankets after one of them gets his driver's license, makes me feel as if someone out there gets it; that someone else knows how it feels to wear your heart outside of your body. And, if I can feel better, knowing that at least I would never have embarrassed my kid by bringing his jockstrap to class or loudly proclaiming to other shoppers at Bed, Bath and Everything Else that my son had agreed to spend the day with me, that's a productive use of a half hour.
But, sometimes, an episode hits a little too close to home. This year, on The Middle, the eldest son goes off to college and neglects to call his mom. Oh, he texts his dad about everything under the sun but doesn't make an effort to stay in touch with the woman who gave him life. (Did that sound too bitter?) When she finally confronts him about how hurt she is, he's clueless but does confess to not wanting to hear her ramble on about nothing or risk being chastised for something he had or had not done and that, here's where the knife goes right into the heart, it's just easier to talk to Dad.
My son hasn't come out and said any of that or I might be saying all of this to a therapist instead of my keyboard. And, in all fairness, my son's Internet connection is not up yet so we haven't been able to Skype and my ancient flip-phone is incapable of sending a text that doesn't take ten minutes to compose. (Yeah, I know I have to get on that.) But I haven't heard his voice in over a week (if you don't count his outgoing voicemail message) and, like my sitcom compatriot Frankie, I'm having a tough time with that.
I thought we had a deal. I would let him go without hanging on to his leg, begging him to stay. And, in exchange, he would pick up the phone often enough that I could pretend he wasn't a thousand miles away. He was supposed to "call me when he got there".
It didn't work for Beverly Goldberg either.
Until Frankie and Bev came along, I had never seen myself in past TV matriarchs. Roseanne was way too caustic and crude. Carol Brady was entirely too chipper (and sported a haircut that no one could identify with). And Edith Bunker was too passive. I did throw my chips in with Debra Barone (like Frankie, another Patricia Heaton role) of Everybody Loves Raymond for awhile but, as the series went on, she developed a nasty edge that broke the bond. (But if you haven't seen the PMS episode, check that out of your local library. It should be required viewing for all married couples.)
I'm not saying that I agree with all of Frankie and Bev's choices but watching Frankie run down to the field after she thinks her son is hurt in a football game or Bev, mournfully sniffing her children's baby blankets after one of them gets his driver's license, makes me feel as if someone out there gets it; that someone else knows how it feels to wear your heart outside of your body. And, if I can feel better, knowing that at least I would never have embarrassed my kid by bringing his jockstrap to class or loudly proclaiming to other shoppers at Bed, Bath and Everything Else that my son had agreed to spend the day with me, that's a productive use of a half hour.
But, sometimes, an episode hits a little too close to home. This year, on The Middle, the eldest son goes off to college and neglects to call his mom. Oh, he texts his dad about everything under the sun but doesn't make an effort to stay in touch with the woman who gave him life. (Did that sound too bitter?) When she finally confronts him about how hurt she is, he's clueless but does confess to not wanting to hear her ramble on about nothing or risk being chastised for something he had or had not done and that, here's where the knife goes right into the heart, it's just easier to talk to Dad.
My son hasn't come out and said any of that or I might be saying all of this to a therapist instead of my keyboard. And, in all fairness, my son's Internet connection is not up yet so we haven't been able to Skype and my ancient flip-phone is incapable of sending a text that doesn't take ten minutes to compose. (Yeah, I know I have to get on that.) But I haven't heard his voice in over a week (if you don't count his outgoing voicemail message) and, like my sitcom compatriot Frankie, I'm having a tough time with that.
I thought we had a deal. I would let him go without hanging on to his leg, begging him to stay. And, in exchange, he would pick up the phone often enough that I could pretend he wasn't a thousand miles away. He was supposed to "call me when he got there".
It didn't work for Beverly Goldberg either.
Monday, August 18, 2014
Just You and Me, Kid
My husband used to travel for business . . . a lot. He would often be gone for 2-3 weeks at a time negotiating deals in Hong Kong or sizing up a possible acquisition in Jaipur while I busied myself signing the kids up for Park District swim classes or attending middle school band concerts. Don't try this at home but we even lived apart for longer than I care to admit when he finished up an assignment in Germany and, later, took a job in Virginia that he feared might not work out long enough to uproot the kids. Even when we were clever enough to be living in the same zip code, my hubby tended to be one of those Type A personalities who worked fourteen hour days and weekends. Long story short - we spent a lot of time apart.
Lately, not so much. For the last year, my better half has been working out of a home office, establishing a media business as well as trying to get some consulting projects off the ground. We've gone from being separated by an ocean to being separated by nothing more than a staircase. It's great to have him around more but, now that we're the only two people living in the house, it's also an adjustment.
As newly-christened empty-nesters, we're bound to hit a few speed bumps as we try to re-invent our relationship while we each try to re-invent ourselves. Whether it's taking a walk around the block or making a spontaneous trip to McDonald's for one of those $ .49 cones, we're in the early stages of converting our routine into something that resembles the one we signed on for when we said, "I do". Hopefully, we can avoid the pitfalls of other long-time married folks who found out they had nothing to say to each other once the kids hit the road. Since I still find my hubby one of the smartest, funniest, most challenging people I know, I doubt I have to worry about that one.
But trying to interrupt me after the new People magazine is delivered? That could be a deal breaker.
Lately, not so much. For the last year, my better half has been working out of a home office, establishing a media business as well as trying to get some consulting projects off the ground. We've gone from being separated by an ocean to being separated by nothing more than a staircase. It's great to have him around more but, now that we're the only two people living in the house, it's also an adjustment.
As newly-christened empty-nesters, we're bound to hit a few speed bumps as we try to re-invent our relationship while we each try to re-invent ourselves. Whether it's taking a walk around the block or making a spontaneous trip to McDonald's for one of those $ .49 cones, we're in the early stages of converting our routine into something that resembles the one we signed on for when we said, "I do". Hopefully, we can avoid the pitfalls of other long-time married folks who found out they had nothing to say to each other once the kids hit the road. Since I still find my hubby one of the smartest, funniest, most challenging people I know, I doubt I have to worry about that one.
But trying to interrupt me after the new People magazine is delivered? That could be a deal breaker.
Monday, August 11, 2014
Goings and Comings
Having a baby shower for your firstborn on the same weekend your youngest moves halfway across the country makes for some interesting emotional moments. From 5:00 a.m. on Saturday, standing on the driveway tearfully waving goodbye to collapsing on the couch and sleeping in my party dress on Sunday, the highs and lows I experienced over the past two days would rival anything Space Mountain could ever throw at me.
Change and I have never been the best of friends. I'm all for the status quo if I have any kind of say in the matter. I know that's not a recipe for growth but if you ask me, growth is very overrated. And you can call me crazy but I'm also not particularly fond of events that leave me feeling as if my heart is being ripped out of my chest. Having never sent either of my kids off to a college that was more than a couple of hours away, it was inevitable that a few tears were going to be shed as I watched the Denver-bound moving truck fill up with my son's belongings; as I watched my parents envelop him in a bear hug and warn him to stay away from "that marijuana crap"; as I watched his pregnant sister give him an extra embrace, knowing that he would miss the birth of her first child.
But, after all the tears, I knew there was work to be done. There was a shower to be thrown; a welcoming party for the newest member of our family. There were cupcakes to decorate and balloons to be hung. I was grateful for the diversion.
Sunday afternoon, a roomful of friends and relatives gathered to abundantly bless our daughter and her husband with love and everything our new grandson could possibly need. There was so much joy watching my daughter revel in the anticipation of becoming a mother that, for a moment, I could only remember how wonderful it is to be a parent. Because, no matter how many times I've felt like my heart was being ripped out of my chest, I've been lucky enough to be a part of creating two amazing people that have brought me more happiness than I could have ever imagined. They were the ones who made my dreams come true.
Now it's their turn.
Change and I have never been the best of friends. I'm all for the status quo if I have any kind of say in the matter. I know that's not a recipe for growth but if you ask me, growth is very overrated. And you can call me crazy but I'm also not particularly fond of events that leave me feeling as if my heart is being ripped out of my chest. Having never sent either of my kids off to a college that was more than a couple of hours away, it was inevitable that a few tears were going to be shed as I watched the Denver-bound moving truck fill up with my son's belongings; as I watched my parents envelop him in a bear hug and warn him to stay away from "that marijuana crap"; as I watched his pregnant sister give him an extra embrace, knowing that he would miss the birth of her first child.
But, after all the tears, I knew there was work to be done. There was a shower to be thrown; a welcoming party for the newest member of our family. There were cupcakes to decorate and balloons to be hung. I was grateful for the diversion.
Sunday afternoon, a roomful of friends and relatives gathered to abundantly bless our daughter and her husband with love and everything our new grandson could possibly need. There was so much joy watching my daughter revel in the anticipation of becoming a mother that, for a moment, I could only remember how wonderful it is to be a parent. Because, no matter how many times I've felt like my heart was being ripped out of my chest, I've been lucky enough to be a part of creating two amazing people that have brought me more happiness than I could have ever imagined. They were the ones who made my dreams come true.
Now it's their turn.
Monday, August 4, 2014
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.
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.
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