25 years and counting

My husband and I are about to celebrate our 25th wedding anniversary.  As my sixteen year old son pointed out, "Not many things last twenty five years these days."  

He's so right.  Over the past twenty-five years, we've really managed to hold on to very few things.  We've collectively had over a dozen different vehicles...4 dogs...3 kids...owned two homes...and yet somehow, with God's grace, just one marriage.

It isn't easy to make a marriage work in this convenience-driven, everything's disposal kind of world we live in.  Let's face it, sharing your life with someone isn't always convenient.  It isn't always fun.  It certainly isn't always rainbows and unicorns.  

There's no secret to marital success.  Although having no secrets does help.  Marriage is work.  It takes effort to love someone when they aren't always lovable...to put up with their quirks and annoying habits day after day and year after year.  Learning to overlook an offense, to forgive the unforgivable and not keep the score, well, none of that is easy to do either.

Marriage means not always getting your own way.  It means sometimes giving up your right to be right.  It means sometimes putting yourself on the back burner so someone else's flame can burn bright.  And all that's some seriously hard stuff to do too.

So why bother with it at all?  Why get married when it demands so much?  Why?  I'll tell you why...

Because no matter what I've invested in this marriage of ours, the dividends have always been greater.  The time, energy and effort I've put in has returned to me the richest of rewards.  

While I was loving him through difficult times...times when, I promise you, it would have been easier to just walk away, he was loving me that same way.  When I was forgiving him for hurts he caused me...hurts I wasn't sure would ever heal...he was forgiving me for the same kinds of hurts I had caused him.  When I was working like a mad woman to build a bridge to him...an often wobbly, sometimes hastily constructed bridge...he was working just as hard to build a bridge to me. 

And so now, these nearly twenty-five years later, that bridge is basically complete.  We don't have to build so much now as we just have to maintain.  We don't have the same kinds of challenges we did when we first started.  We don't make the same kinds of mistakes.  Oh, we still have challenges; we still make mistakes.  But they aren't the kind that cause us to question our commitment to one another or doubt our ability to stand strong together.  They aren't things that would cause the bridge to fall.  Now don't get me wrong, if we fail to do the routine maintenance, that bridge will be in trouble.

But as we stand together on that bridge now, we have proven ourselves to each other enough times to know we can depend wholly on each other.  We know there's nothing we can't accomplish together.  We know we can stand the test of time, because, well, we already have. We trust each other to keep our bridge in good repair.

So as we go into the next twenty five years where the empty nest and the effects of aging will begin to press in on us, we know we are each other's greatest ally. We know we can count on each other to be there through thick and thin.  And whatever we may or not have, we know we have each other.  And that's worth something for sure.  It's definitely worth all the things we've gone through to get here.  

As I look back over the years, think about the ups and downs, remember the good times and the bad, reflect on this life we've lived, I know for sure I'd do it all again...with him...only him...always him. Because while most things don't last, thankfully some things do.  

Home is where the heart is

When my husband and I first got married, we made nearly weekly trips home to visit our families.  We'd pack our bags...and our dirty laundry...and make the hour long trek from Lafayette to Windfall.  Even after we had kids...and our own washer and dryer...we still made the drive home more weekends than not.  

There was...and is...just something about being home.  It is a place where I can put my feet up and let my hair down.   It is the place where I sleep the soundest...act the silliest...dream the biggest.  It is the place where I am able to laugh the hardest...cry the most earnestly...speak my mind the most freely...and be myself completely, knowing that even if I rub someone wrong, they will love me just the same.  And for quite some time after I was married, that place...home...was still my parents' house.

But somewhere along the way, home became a completely different place.  It was no longer where I grew up, where I learned right from wrong or where I relished the safety and security my mom and dad always provided.  I'm not sure when it happened exactly, perhaps because it happened so gradually that I barely noticed at the time, but happen it did.  

At some point, home became our house...our home.  I don't think there was a magical moment, no grand aha, that caused this transformation.  But there definitely was a time when my preference became being in my own house with my own husband and my own children.  There came a time when the family I was born into...my mom and dad, sisters and brother...moved to the periphery of my life while the family I was creating moved to the forefront.  

And when we moved from our first home to the next, I realized something else.  My home was less a physical place built with bricks and mortar and more a place built with heart and soul.  It was...and is...a place more inside me than me inside it.  

As the years march on, I now find myself on the outside edge of my adult children's lives.  My house is no longer theirs.  And slowly but surely, my home isn't theirs anymore either.  They, like my husband and I so many years ago, are making their own homes with their own  families.  And while this is bittersweet for me, it's utter sweetness for them.  And what parent wouldn't want that for their children?  

So while I miss seeing their faces...miss hearing their voices...miss being a part of the ordinary day to day of their lives, I am thankful to have been part of their first family...their first home...the first place their heart was.  And I hope that one day, when they reach the place in their lives where I am now, that they too will look back with as much fondness at the home they were given as children as the one they built themselves as adults.

Lessons learned

With the heart of a writer, you might think I'd have to give all the credit to my English teachers as being the ones who taught me the things I use the most in my everyday life as an adult.  And while I certainly had great English teachers, the truth is, as those of you who read my stuff already know, I'm really not one to follow the rules of writing much.  I misuse punctuation with regularity!!  I actually have very little regard for proper sentence structure...couldn't diagram one now if my life depended on it.   I'm never particularly bothered by a dangling participle or a sentence ending in a preposition.  And if there were a queen of the run-on sentence, I think I'd be her.

In high school, I took Miss Croxford's senior lit class (which won't mean much to the general population, but T.C. alums will feel my pain)...advanced biology where we dissected sharks and memorized something to do with the DNA helix (yeah, that info didn't stick with me)...I took chemistry, a couple years of algebra and two years of French...I filled my schedule with all the 'important' classes...the stuff sure to prepare me for the real world...the stuff guaranteed to get me where I wanted to go in this life.  But oddly enough, two of the skills I learned in high school that routinely serve me well were learned in two of the most...how do I say this delicately?  Benign...in two of the most benign classes I ever took.

Oh, please don't get me wrong, they were great elective courses...courses where things of real value were being taught for sure.  But they weren't the classes my guidance counselor...or my parents...were pushing.  They  weren't classes colleges would have been impressed to see on my transcripts.  And even for me, back then when I thought I'd wear a suit and carry a briefcase instead of push a stroller while sporting a diaper bag, I considered them nothing more than 'filler' in my schedule.

So what are these two skills I learned in high school that I use with such regularity that it warrants me noting so?  #1-typing.  While sitting in class with Mr. Farris at the  helm, fingers down, wrists off the table, eyes up, never would I have thought typing would be something I use every single day. In a pre-computer world, it seemed  like an  unnecessary skill to acquire.  But now, when a keyboard is part of so much of our communication, I'm grateful to have learned how to type with ease.  Even though I learned on a clunky old manual typewriter, had to use correction strips (anyone remember those?) and struggled to get margins and headers right for my weekly Croxford paper, knowing how to type with speed and ease certainly has served me well.  And it's more than just being able to easily blog, write emails or Facebook like a pro, it serves me well at work too.  Being the official 'typer' has it's advantages even in the realm of the high school cafeteria.

Secondly, the skill I am most thankful to know, although never so eager to use, is ironing.  Crazy as it sounds from someone who avoids purchasing clothes for herself that will require ironing, I find myself standing in front of that darned ironing board on a near weekly basis during basketball season.  Every Friday, my son has to wear 'dress' clothes.  'Dress' clothes = ironing.  And while I in no way, shape or form enjoying the process, I must say, I am very glad to have learned how to press a mean dress shirt under the direction of Miss Buchanan back in home economics class.

So you're probably wondering what the  point of telling you all this is?  Well, as a mother, I want to make sure my kids know all the 'right' things.  Education is important.  But it's easy to forget that education isn't just reading, writing and arithmetic.  Good grades and book smarts only take a person so far.  Real life requires a variety of skills...some can be learned in classrooms...most are learned elsewhere.  So while I'm grateful to be able to read and write, do math and yes, even type and iron a shirt, I am also grateful to have been taught to love others, to be kind, to be generous, to be a thinker and a doer.  I am thankful to have been shown how to be a good woman by the women who raised me, my mother, my grandmother.  I am thankful to have been able to learn the skills that make me a good wife, mother, friend.  I am thankful to have been taught to have a good work ethic by a father who lived that out in front of me every single day.  And for me, I'm confident in saying that the best and most valuable things I've learned are found in the Bible that I use as my manual for life.

The list of lessons learned goes on and on and grows even now on a daily basis.  I guess, to me, the whole  world has the potential to be a classroom if the student is willing to learn.  And learning that is a lesson within itself.

The 12 year itch

It's year 24 of my marriage...and time for what I like to call the 12  year itch.  It isn't an itch that can be soothed with any salve or ointment like you might use for poison ivy or  poison oak.  It can't be satisfied with a racy car or set of hair plugs like a middle age crisis possibly could.  It has nothing to do with wanting to replace a 40 something spouse  with a couple 20 somethings.  But it totally is about standing at the intersection of one phase of life and having to choose which direction to go as  we head into the next.

Twenty-four years ago, we had the first itch...the itch to be hitched.  We were just two stupid kids  who didn't know exactly what we were doing, but we knew we wanted to face the future together.  We didn't have a five year plan...we didn't even have a five month plan.  We just jumped in headlong and started scratching that itch.

At the 12 year mark of our marriage, we were nicely settled into a comfortable little life with three little children in a very little house.  It was, for the most part, everything we hoped for.  But then the itching started.

As the boys were getting bigger, the house felt smaller.  And while we were just an hour from our extended family, the separation somehow seemed larger with each passing year.  Our dreams just kept growing and growing...getting so big that our once comfortable little life didn't seem to fit us anymore.  

We were no longer the parents of small kids with small needs. And as our boys were growing older, we wanted them to be close to their grandparents...to go to a good school...to live in a safe neighborhood.  We wanted them to have both literal and figurative 'room to grow'.  

The urge to scratch that itch became overwhelming until we finally decided  to pull up stakes and make a whole new life for ourselves.  As our little children became big boys, we traded our little house for a bigger one.  We traded our big town lifestyle or a small town lifestyle.  We lost some things in the move...we grew apart from friends...we left a church we loved...I even gave up a job that paid far better twelve years ago than the one I have now pays today.

But scratching that itch brought us into a whole new life...a rich and rewarding life.  We've made a home here...the kind of home that lives inside us as much as we live inside it.  We've made new friends...friends we love like sisters and brothers.  We're closer to our families, both physically and otherwise.  And that job that doesn't pay so great in dollars and cents has  made me rich in so many other ways.  

 And yet, with all our blessings, too many to count, that itch has started up again. Oh, it isn't 'our' itch...if it were, we'd simply scratch it.  It's my husband's itch.  And it's an itch I'm hard pressed to want to scratch.  

With the boys now men...and daughters-in-law times two..and a grandbaby who has us over the moon, my husband is itching for a change.  A change of scenery...a change of direction...a change of monumental proportions.  Too many changes for my happily settled mind to fully wrap around.  

That free and fearless attitude of his makes me want to dig my heels in and prepare to be dragged by the very horse I once couldn't wait to hitch my wagon too.  Oh, don't misunderstand me, where he goes, I go.  Where you find him is where you'll always find me.  But that doesn't mean I'm thrilled about the prospect of 'starting over'...his words...his very scary words.

I realize there's some level of 'starting over' at this juncture in our lives...whether we stay in this house or downsize to something that better fits the new face of our family....whether we change careers or not...whether we like or not...whether we're ready or not.  I can't stop it.  I can't change it.  I know I have to bend or I'll break...I have to move or get run over.  I don't have the option to keep everything just as it has been.  Oh how I wish I knew how to cure that itch!

And while I don't know what our future holds...I don't know where we'll be tomorrow or next month or next year....while I don't know how much different our lives will be now that we're grandpa and mimi instead of mommy and daddy...while I can say very little with very much certainty, this I know...if in 12 years from now Dan and I are still breathing, that itch will be back...just in time for retirement.

Lost or found

While I was making the trek from the small town we live in to another small town some twenty miles away to watch my youngest son play soccer, I made a wrong turn.  For several miles, I found myself wandering from one desolate country road to another, trying to get back on course.  As I drove down a long stretch of lonely      highway, it occurred to me that no one knew exactly where I was.  At that moment, I realized if something happened to me, no one would even know where to begin looking.  And then, even more disconcerting, the thought that it could be a very long time before anyone even missed me crossed my mind.

Being all alone and a little lost certainly had something to do with the thoughts whirling around in my head.  But another significant event of the past week played a part in it as well.  You see, my uncle passed away last week.  He was my dad's brother.  I hadn't seen him in probably thirty years.  I wouldn't have recognized him even if I did see him.  I know nothing about him really...nothing good.  And he knew nothing about me...nothing at all.  We were, for all intents and purposes, strangers...genetically related but in no other way connected.

What I do know about my uncle is that during his life, he had opportunities...he squandered.  Wives...he abandoned.  Children...he failed.  He had talents...he wasted.  Dreams...he threw away.  He had  potential...he left undeveloped.  He once had a family...he died alone.

It's tragic and pathetic and sad.  To live a whole life and have nothing at the end of it.  To die alone with not even one person to hold your hand as you leave this world.  To live a whole life only to end up having strangers bury your body without so much as one word of eulogy spoken over you or one tear shed in loving memory.

I wonder at what point my uncle got lost.  What wrong turn took him so far off the path that he never found his way back?  Who knows, maybe he never tried to find his way back.  Or maybe he never realized he was lost.

Whether by choice or chance, because of circumstance or consequence, my uncle became the worst kind of lost...hopelessly lost.  My mom said he'd call about once a year, always drunk, usually wanting to rehash the past that had led to his wayward life.  But he never asked for any kind of reconciliation.  He never sought redemption.  He didn't seek to be part of a family that surely would have for made room for him, had he wanted back in.

He seemed somehow satisfied to live with his discontent.  Crazy as that sounds, he isn't the only one I know who lives that way...satisfied with their discontent.  Doing nothing to help themselves.  Never trying to be healed.  Not wanting to get better. Hanging on to a past that only suffocates any hope of happiness a person might have.  Never turning around even when they know they're headed in the wrong direction.  Staying lost seemingly on purpose.

I don't understand it.  For me, even that friendly little welcome sign greeting me as I finally arrived at my destination brought me relief, even joy.  Who wouldn't want to be found?  Who wouldn't want to loved?  Who would choose to be lost?

Ignorance is bliss

With two adult children, I'm learning to redefine my role as mother.  Being the mom of 'grown ups' requires one to engage in a very delicate balancing act where we learn to hold our tongues more and express our opinions less.  It means letting our kids make their own choices...and their own mistakes.  It means accepting that the day-to-day job of mothering is no longer necessary...and no longer desired by our offspring.  


As a bit of a control freak, this is a transition that I often find challenging.  My instincts tell me to swoop in when I sense danger, to protest loudly when I see a potential pitfall and to share every ounce of my infinite wisdom...whether it's wanted or not.  But I'm learning to exercise self-control in these areas...to react slowly to perceived threats and to wait until my advice is sought to offer it.  I actually think I'm getting pretty good at this intricate high wire act.  And the relationships that are growing among my husband and I, our adult sons and their mates are testament to it.


As evidence, my sons have started to reveal things about their teen years that I had not previously known.  Oh you know the kind of stuff I'm talking about...the stuff they got away with...the stuff I never suspected...the stuff I was probably better off not knowing.  It's nothing horrible...normal stupid boy things...like making a sling shot  to  shoot pencils into the ceiling tiles in the choir room...flooding the boy's locker room during P.E....and one son booby trapping the other one's locker so that a bottle of water dumped on him when he opened it.  They laughed and laughed as they shared story after story about their immature antics.   



And while I tried to act righteously indignant about some of their high school hi jinx, as any good mother should, I couldn't help but be flattered to be brought into the circle where previously, only their friends had been invited.  Events that would have been met with stern reprimands or grounding then could be shared openly and with a good chuckle now.  


And while some level of ignorance truly is bliss when raising teenagers, having relationships with my kids that are still growing and thriving now that they are adults is absolute blessedness.  

The Gynocologist, Walmart and the BMV

We all have places we dread going.  In my top three are my annual 'female' visit to the doctor, Walmart and the BMV.  The first only comes around once a year with benefits that outweigh it's stirrup-induced downfalls, so it's tolerable.  Walmart I can generally steer clear of...although every once in a while and defying all logic, I find myself sucked into the vortex of shopping perdition.  But the BMV is a place that's often unavoidable and almost always a source of frustration.

In the last few weeks, we added a vehicle to our fleet while getting rid of another, and we gained a freshly permitted young driver.  These three tasks would seemingly have required a maximum of three visits to the beloved Bureau of Motor Vehicles. Of course, had that happened, I wouldn't be taking the time to write about it now.

Adding the first vehicle was a breeze.  In and out with no problems other than being some $600 poorer.  But then I couldn't find the title for the vehicle we were letting go.  In all fairness, the BMV isn't at all to blame  for my careless misplacement (or more likely the unfortunate shredding) of our original title.  Nor is it responsible for the bank's failure to release the lien.  But everything from then on I feel totally validated in blaming on them.

My first bone of contention...you can't call the local license branch directly anymore.  Like many other fine institutions, the powers that be at the BMV have implemented a voice mail maze that I'm sure is designed to cause enough aggravation to insure patrons either (1) give up or (2) spontaneously combust from utter exasperation.  I chose option #1.

So an unplanned trip to one of my least favorite places to visit became absolutely necessary.   And because I hadn't been able to talk to a flesh and blood human being, I had no idea at that time what the issue was that was preventing me from being able to order a new title online.   I didn't know what to take with me or what to do in advance to prepare for this trip. I showed up empty handed and annoyed.

Once the gal explained that the lien had never been released by the lender even though the vehicle had been paid off for well over three years, I asked if I could have the proper paperwork faxed to the branch so we could get things cleared up right away.  She said, "no problem", and jotted down the fax number for me.  A quick call to the credit union, and it looked like we'd have a relatively simple solution to my problem.  But an hour later...and only a few minutes before closing time...still no fax.  I tried to call the loan department at the credit union again, but after 4pm on a Friday, I had no luck.

The gal at the BMV offered to call me in the morning if the fax came through.  How nice, I thought, even though it would mean another trip to the branch.  So I gave her my number and headed off.

But come Saturday morning, I still hadn't heard from the credit union or the BMV.  Now I knew the loan department at the credit union could be closed, but the BMV was open til noon.  Of course, because of the voice mail h...e...double hockey sticks....I couldn't actually call to see if they'd received the paperwork yet.  So I decided to just wait until Monday when I could call the credit union before making the trip to town.

On Monday, I went in to the credit union with a head full of steam that had built up over the weekend.  I planned to let them know just how annoyed I was to have been left stranded at the BMV for over an hour waiting on a fax that never came through.  But the agent there was quick to show me that they had indeed sent the fax...twice.  And both times it had been returned as undeliverable.  I still had the piece of paper the gal at the BMV had written the number on for me in my purse...same number the credit union had tried to fax...same wrong number.  The agent at the credit union then told me they had tried to call the branch to ask for the correct fax number, but guess what...they had ended up in the automated purgatory all callers to the BMV land in.  And like me, they had chose option #1 and simply gave up on getting through to a real person.

At least I finally had the paperwork I needed to get my new title ordered.  But that was not the end of my misadventures with the BMV.  Sadly, it wasn't even the most irritating encounter I'd have with them that week.

Just two days later, I had to take the last of the little birdies from this nest to acquire the much coveted learner's permit.  We had gathered every piece of identifying paperwork we could find on the boy...birth certificate, social security card, passport, W2 and a bank statement.  He even had his student ID and public library card for good measure.  We had covered all our bases...something from each of their required categories.  The only thing we were missing was a blood test to prove he really belongs to his father and me...which I wouldn't be surprised if they start demanding somewhere down the line.

But upon presenting our stack of documents to the same gal who had provided me with the incorrect fax number, my son's dreams of obtaining his permit were quickly dashed that day.  That W2 and bank statement would be no help in proving his Indiana citizenship.  They needed something with the physical address on it.  But no one is sending things to our physical address...because the United States Postal Service doesn't deliver to our house here in podunkville.

The gal suggested a utility bill.  Seriously??  He's 15.  He doesn't have utility bills.  He doesn't have any bills.  How about his grade card?  Card grades are mailed...to our P.O. box.  Transcript?  School's out.  There's no one there to print a transcript right now.

Then she tells me she could accept MY birth certificate and two other documents with MY physical address on them.  Although how that proves where HE lives is beyond me. It's just her taking my word for it that he resides where I reside.  But if she's going to take my word for that much of it, why not take my word for the rest of it?  Seriously...we didn't have to provide this much documentation to get the kid's passport or send him to a third world country on a missions trip where he traveled without us!          

But at least we had a solution to our problem.  However, she informed me, the one piece of ID they will not accept that has my physical address on it...wait for it....

MY DRIVER'S LICENSE.

Apparently, having proven my identity and residence to them once upon a time no longer is good enough when I'm vouching for the identity and residence of my minor child.  (Perhaps spontaneous combustion isn't just a concern while using the BMV's phone system!)  Strange how the one piece of ID practically every place else will accept as proof of who I am and where I live isn't good enough for the one place that issues it!

But without any other options, we returned home to gather yet more documents.  And then, with fingers crossed and migraine medication on hand, we were off to the BMV again.  This time, thankfully, we left with a a little piece of paper that made my son smile in such a way that made it all worth it.  Maybe we'll celebrate with a trip to Walmart...NOT!!



    

Mom pay

I got a text at 3pm from my fifteen year old son asking me to please bring his basketball shoes to him after school...at 3:10.  So I dropped what I was doing...nothing important really...went and hunted down the shoes in his 'enter at your own risk' bedroom and headed out the back door.


My husband, who happened to have the day off today, met me at my van and asked me where I was going.  I quickly filled him in, not only on my immediate objective but also on how I had very specifically asked our son if he had everything he needed for his after school activities before we left this morning. I added that I feel like I spend half my life running errands for and following the agenda of our children.  


I honestly don't think that's much of an exaggeration.  For the past twenty-one years, I have logged a lot of miles taking kids to and from everything from church related events to wrestling meets...ball games to dances.  I've made special trips to fetch missing uniform pieces, forgotten homework, field trip permission slips that just had to be turned in that day.  I've made many late Sunday evening treks to buy poster board and art supplies for projects that always seem to be due on Monday mornings. I've delivered after school snacks to boys who surely would have wasted away had they had to wait until ball practices were over. I've made so many trips to and from my kids' schools, I'm certain my van could get there by itself now.  


I couldn't even begin to guess how many hours I've spent sitting on uncomfortable bleachers watching my boys play basketball or wrestle...or how much time I've spent watching baseball in the scorching heat...or soccer in the pouring rain.  Oh, and the time spent watching is nothing compared to the time spent waiting!  Waiting in the parking lot for school to get out...waiting on the bus to get back after an away game...waiting for rehearsal to end or practice to get over.


I'm pretty sure if I got paid by the hour or by the mile, I'd have enough to take a very nice trip somewhere by now or maybe even a nicely funded IRA.  And while I don't except to be financially compensated for my 'work' as a mother, it's nice to be appreciated for it.




So when my husband leaned into the van, kissed me gently and said, "Everyone should have a mother like you,"...all I could do was smile.  Because no matter how many times I've complained about the wasted gas and wasted time spent making special trips just to deliver gym shoes, I'm always going to do it.  And the truth is, I'm going to miss it when it's gone.

The Hard Way

When I tell our story...my husband and mine, I like to say we were fearless as we went out into the world and just refused to fail.  But maybe we were just plain stupid.  After all, we did do it the hard way.  Less than twelve hours after graduating high school, I became Mrs. Dan Wyant.  And less than than twenty-four hours after that, we packed up our meager possessions and headed to another state to start a new life together.  We had no jobs to go to but had no doubt we'd find them.  We had no home to call our own, but we weren't afraid to make one.  We had no plan for how to build our future...just two hearts that were determined to make it happen.

By the time I was 21, my twin sons' age now, I was three years married, the mother of two, living with my husband in a town far enough way from our families that we really felt like we were on our own.  We had a little house and a car with a $78 a month payment.  We were standing on our own feet and going to to bed at night with a tired we had earned.  Life was good, and we were happy.

But for me to pretend our lives have always been smooth as silk or perfectly peachy would be as crazy as you believing it.  There's nothing particularly 'easy' about being a grown up, about being married or about being a parent. Putting all those hats on at once only multiplies the challenges.

Let's face it, the on-the-job training program for life is difficult and sometimes painful.  The only thing higher than the hurdles are the stakes.  We've made more than our fair share of poor choices over the years.  We've taken turns being selfish and foolish.  We've made messes and left scars.  We've fallen short and missed the mark from time to time.  Maybe there is no 'easy way' when it comes to this life.

But the mother in me can't help but want to spare my sons all the pains and pitfalls this life promises.  I don't want them to be like we were...doing it the hard way.  I don't want them to struggle or fall short or have to trade their dreams for harsh realities.  I don't want them to settle or sell out.  I don't want them to have to do without or simply make do.  As their mother, all I ever wanted to do was give them....well, everything.  

So it's good for me, that as it turns out, to do so...to have given them everything...would honesty have been to rob them, in whole or part, of the beauty that is their own  life's journey.  Because as I look back at my own life, it was in the struggles and in the times of want and in the arena of the unknown that I did my best growing.  It was when we had so little that we gained an appreciation for much.  It was when we were without that we were often the richest.  It was when we had nothing but each other that we first realized we had everything that mattered.  And who we are today and where we are today would not be nearly so sweet without the insights gained by lives well lived.

So while there was a time when it was my job to provide a safe haven and construct a careful cocoon around the little boys I was so blessed to have call me 'mommy', that time has passed.  And boys no more, my sons...grown men...move away from this place to make their own way.  They do so, for better or worse, for richer or poorer...with women who love them and who walk beside them through this world.

They will discover for themselves all the things marriage and family and real life hold.  They will find their own strengths and learn to help each other through in times of weakness.   They will decide what's worth fighting for and what's simply not worth anything at all.  They will build their own future, burn their bridges, break their own ground.  They will make their own plans, dream their own dreams and pursue their own happiness.  They will find it out...figure it out...and sometimes even fight it out.  But Lord willing, they will endure and overcome it all together.  

So while my sons may not have done everything the way I would have chosen for them...the easy way...I'm sure my mom and dad would say the same about me.  But I know I wouldn't change my life even if I could...and that's what I hope for my sons to be able to say themselves one day.  When they too are old and gray, I want them to look back and say they wouldn't have had it any other way.

Another year older

If there's one thing I know, it's that I don't know much.  As I live this very innocuous existence, rarely venturing beyond my own little world, I realize there are places I will never go, things I will never see, experiences I will never have.  But the bigger reality is that there are places I don't even know are out there...things I can't even conceive of...adventures I'm not even aware are a possibility.


It's a fine line between content and complacent, I suppose.  As I find myself firmly entrenched in this place I like to refer to as 'the middle ages', that line is one I often walk with trepidation.  It's easy to slip into a life of routine, a life of monotony, a life where every day becomes much like the one before it and the one that follows.  


It's easy to become satisfied to know only what we know, do only what we've always done and never reach beyond the place we are.  But is that the life I want as I begin my descent over the proverbial hill?  Just because my hair is starting to gray and my joints sometimes ache, am I past the point of dreaming new dreams and pursuing new mountains to climb?   
Or is the goal to just keep pressure on the brakes so I don't fly down the old mountain too quickly?


I'm torn about it sometimes.  Part of me likes to just sit back and rest on what I've already accomplished.  But another part of me is screaming, 'there has to be more than this!'.  As the kids are growing up and leaving home and my role as wife and mother is being redefined, the me that's been neglected...even forgotten...by the me I was busy being is finding herself again.  She's thinking that she could discover...or at least rediscover...a whole plethora of things to do, places to go and even dreams to dream.  


And while I'm deciding what that all means in real life terms, I at least am able to look over the horizon with a renewed sense of excitement and wonder....knowing that the youth I've lost has made way for the woman I am...and the woman I'm still yet...even at this age...still yet to become.  

Dad

After four plus decades in the workforce, my dad crossed the threshold into retirement yesterday!  He has always worked hard and provided well.  His co-workers think the world of him, and he has made valuable contributions on every job he's ever had.  So as he closes this very long chapter of his life, I not only congratulate him, but I want him to know how very proud I am to have him as my dad.


I think when you're a kid, you don't realize just how much of an impact your parents are having on you.  For better or worse, whether by design or without intent, they set a standard for us.  They impress on us certain values, ideas and world views that we don't fully appreciate until we're grown.


Especially as a teenager, my dad became the voice of reason for me.  He was never really one to just say, 'because I said so'.  He listened to me, entertained my ideas and offered his own in a way that didn't belittle mine even when he surely was hoping to sway me in a different direction.  


It is with great fondness that I look back on the many late night conversations my dad and I would share.  When I would come in, he would always be up.  I never got the impression he was waiting up on me, but now that I have kids of my own, I wonder if he was.  Either way, I always knew he was open for discussion.  Sometimes the topics were light as we both loved sports and sharing the mundane stories of our days.  But often, the topics were quite serious.  It's with my dad that I first discovered my love for talking about politics, religion and all things worth debating.  It was with my dad that I got my first impressions of how life really works.  It was with my dad that I first began to form opinions about all the hard subjects...things that I find even the most seasoned among us still cannot come to agreement about.  


It was with my dad that I really learned my own value.  Because he thought I was special, because he valued me, because he respected my ideas (even when he didn't necessarily agree with them), because he treated me fairly, because even when I was small, he made me feel empowered to do whatever...to be whoever...I wanted to be, because he loved me, I loved me. And because my dad was the man he is, he showed me exactly the kind of man I deserved to share my life with.  


My dad may be unassuming, but he should never be underestimated.  There isn't another like him...not for me anyway.  And while some men are happy to be measured by their contributions in the workplace, it is in the hearts of those who love him that my dad will always be head and shoulders above any other.  


I love you, Dad.  Thank you for being you...and thank you for shaping me into the woman I am today.

Exposing Myself

As more and more of life lies behind me, I find myself often looking back at where I've been.  For the most part, I look back with fondness.  As a whole, it's been a good life.  More often then not, I've been loved and nurtured.  I've been safe and sound.  I had enough of everything that's mattered.  


But I don't think anyone gets through this life completely unscathed.  We all fall down.  Sometimes we get knocked down.  We know the notion of sticks and stones breaking bones but words never hurting is a big fat lie.  Time doesn't heal all wounds.  Not everything comes out in the wash.


Most of this life's battle scars mar heart rather than flesh.  And while some people crumble under the weight of a broken heart, most of us learn to bandage our wounds somehow and keep on going. 


But our brokenness always reveals itself.  It helps shape us from the inside out.  In our broken places, we are changed from who we were to who we are.  The words spoken, the deeds done, the choices made...it all plays a role in molding us at the very core of ourselves.  


Sometimes people reach into our world and perhaps without even realizing it, they tear a hole in us that we spend the rest of our lives trying to fill.  They steal something from us with their cutting remarks, brutal mistreatment or their cruel disregard for us as human beings.  They violate us somehow...taking something away that wasn't theirs to take or leaving behind for us to deal with something that was never intended to be ours.  


We question our value.  We wonder if they are somehow right to degrade us, to disparage us...as if there is some justification for robbing us of something that was, at it's very root, the heart of us.


We find ourselves changed.  We find ourselves forever altered by things that were often completely beyond our control...sometimes beyond our comprehension.  We find ourselves vulnerable...our wounds open to infection.  We find ourselves defenseless...our brokenness rendering us powerless to save ourselves. 


And while we more often than not find the strength to move on, some part of us bears that scar.   In mistrust, in doubt, in depression, in addictions of every form and nature, in self-loathing, in anger, in fear...in whatever the symptoms may be...the brokenness of our hearts is exposed.  


For me, I wear the scar of my personal dysfunction for all to see.  The hurts I hold inside I keep buried beneath the layers of my physical body.  Like a suit of armor, I have built this body to guard my heart.  In some twisted way that only I truly understand, it is my best friend and my worst enemy.  It protects and punishes me all at the same time.  And while I am not generally unhappy in my current form, I do recognize that the me I seek to shelter within this fleshy vessel is just as open to the hurts and heartaches of this life as it would be in a smaller shell.  


I haven't a plan...I haven't a goal...I just have a revelation.  Where I go from here is yet to be decided.  What I know for sure though, is that I don't want to be forever defined by the scars on my heart.

Missing My Grandma

I'm missing my grandma today.  I try not to just sit and think about her too often.  Not because I don't love her and not because I don't ache over not having her anymore.  It's quite the opposite actually.  As I sit here just beginning to let myself wallow in my memories of her, tears pour freely down my face.  I can quickly become consumed in heartache and anguish as I long to touch someone I can no longer reach, as I long to take hold of someone who has slipped so far away from me.


Growing up, my grandma was the axis around which our family spun.  Through both good times and bad, she was the single most powerful force that held us all together.  Despite divisions and strife that occasionally reared their ugly heads, her matriarchal influence somehow kept us in line.  


My grandma was a confidant to me.  I could tell her anything, and she listened without passing judgement.  She was a great sounding board, giving me honest and thoughtful advice at times when I was just beginning to discover who I was and who I ought to be.  


She was my biggest supporter.  When I was with her, I felt invincible.  She always saw good in me when I couldn't see it in myself.  She saw beauty in me when I was sure no one else could.  She made me feel comfortable in my own skin and confident in my own abilities.  She made me feel strong, like there was nothing she thought I couldn't do.  


She loved me.


She loved me like only a grandma does.


How pleased I think she would be to see who I've become.  How delighted she'd be to see the wonderful young men my children have grown to be.  How ecstatic she'd be to welcome my grandchild into this world.  How I wish she were here now to share in this time of my life.  


What I wouldn't give for just one more day with her.  What I wouldn't do to be able to tell her how much I love her and how I hope to be the kind of grandma to my own soon-to-be-born grandchild as she was to me.  


Oh how I long to feel her face against mine and stroke her soft hair and melt into her embrace.  I wish I could smell her.  I wish I could sit on her couch and pour out my heart to her again.  I just wish I still had her.  I just want heaven to give her back to me, if only it could.


I miss you Grandma.  I love you...and I miss you.

Wedded bliss {My spin on poetry. :)}

This is what it is..
a safe place to fall...
a warm summer breeze..
fuzzy socks on a cold night.
It's a tall glass of iced tea and hot cup of cocoa with little bitty marshmallows floating on top.
It's a gentle laugh, a subtle smile, a soft touch.
It's being full...happy...content.
It's being totally vulnerable and completely protected all in the same moment.
It's the highest high and lowest low having a shared center.
It's opening the world to all the possibilities and then closing the circle around the heart of it all.
It's deliberate when it needs to be and beautifully random when it can be.
It's the perfect balance of sophistication and innocence...of elegance and messiness.
It's a whisper and a shout...a song and sigh.
It's shelter from the storms and dancing in the rain.
It's finding yourself enmeshed in someone else and finding someone else enmeshed in you, two becoming one.
It's ups and downs, leaps and bounds, two steps forward and three steps back.
It's giving up on the idea of giving up.
It's war and peace and joy and grief.
It's where hope and reality meet.
It's pure and simple...and complicated.
It's looking into someone's eyes and seeing only yourself there.
It's looking into your heart and seeing only him there.
It's love...and all love promises.
A ring and a kiss.
This is what it is...wedded bliss.

What part of 'vacation' don't you understand?

I am married to a very hard-working man, for which, I am very grateful.  He takes both his paying job and his job as keeper of the castle very seriously...maybe too seriously sometimes.  Like today, for instance...


I am on day #7 of my Christmas break (one of the very nice perks of being employed by a school system).  In those seven days, however, there has been very little down time for me.  If all the pre-Christmas activities...shopping, baking, wrapping, cleaning...and all the Christmas events...going to see my husband's parents, hosting the big family get together for my side of the family, having our traditional Christmas breakfast with our little family unit...and all the post Christmas tasks...getting mountains of empty boxes and shredded wrapping paper bagged up, taking down the tree and decorations, making a return to two weren't enough, our youngest son has had basketball practice every morning at 9am except on Christmas Eve and Christmas itself.  With all that, there has been little 'vacation' to be found in this break as of yet.  


So this morning, on day #7, we finally had the opportunity to sleep in, slow down and just have a lazy day.  Oh wait, remember that hard-working man I'm married to?  Yeah, well, he doesn't believe in a lazy day.  


As I sit in my office hiding from his to-do list, I can hear him repeatedly calling for our fifteen year old son to come help him as he tiles and grouts the shower in our main bathroom.  My son's response...or lack thereof...indicates to me he has the same opinion about my husband's incessant need to stay busy as I do.  


What's wrong with the occasional day of sheer and utter slothfulness?  Spending the day in one's jammies, watching made-for-tv movies, playing mindless games on Facebook...how can that be such a terrible thing?   Will the world stop spinning or the sun cease to shine if we just let everything go for a single day?  Can there be any real harm in just taking it easy and doing absolutely nothing of real value for just a 24 hour period?  


As I hear him working away, I almost feel guilty for just sitting here now...almost.  It isn't that I don't have a to-do list of mine own.  I haven't been to the grocery store in almost two weeks.  I need to get the Christmas decorations down to the basement.  The checkbook needs balanced.  These are all things I could easily do today that would satisfy his need for us all to stay productive while not causing me to feel overworked on our very first free day. 


Maybe I'll even go offer him a little help...or at least company...while he works.  He always seems to appreciate that.  And after all, I really do enjoy the fruits of his labor so it's the least I can do...literally, it's the least I can do.  <g>


I guess I should just give up the dream of a totally lazy day...at least until January 4th.  That's the one day he'll be back at work, but I'll still be on vacation.  :-)

Flushing Optional

We have two bathrooms in our house...ours and the boys'.  The boys' bathroom is actually the main bathroom for the whole house, but for all intents and purposes, it is the boys' bathroom. They mark this bathroom much in the same way a dog marks it's territory.  In addition to dribble marks on the floor in front of the stool, they also leave their mark with dried blue toothpaste in the sink (sometimes mixed with whiskers), dirty laundry draped over the tub, the daily newspaper scattered about and more often than not, an empty toilet roll sitting on the counter.  


For these reasons, I have often referred to this bathroom as the gas station bathroom and have refused to use it.  But just before Thanksgiving, my husband remodeled their bathroom and made it simply beautiful.  So today, I decided to give this not even two week old bathroom a try.  For the most part, it looked great.  But then I saw the tell-tell sign that it definitely is still the boys' bathroom.  The toilet had not been flushed.


I do not know why my sons consider flushing to be optional.  And in spite of their mantra, 'if it's yellow, leave it mellow; if it's brown, flush it down', I somehow doubt their actions have as much to do with water conservation as simple laziness.  


Unfortunately, that isn't the only thing my sons consider 'optional' around here.  My youngest often considers tooth brushing optional.  When it's to the point where his teeth and flesh are almost the same color, I feel compelled to inquire when he last brushed.  (Were I more gifted, I could probably answer that question by the hardness of the dried toothpaste in the sink.)  He will then, use the inside collar of his shirt to wipe off his teeth...as though that's a worthy substitute for actual brushing.


Putting sheets on their beds is also optional to the boys.  My mom often says it looks like an episode of 'Cops' around here because the mattresses are always exposed and their bedrooms look like they were ransacked.  I have no idea why they elect to sleep in the remains of their own sloughed off skin cells or why they feel at home in rooms that put the best frat houses to shame.  


Clothing is also optional around here much of the time.  I do not know why I cannot convince my boys that they are past the point where seeing them in their skivvies is cute.  One of them traipses through the house routinely in nothing but his undies, usually scratching himself as he goes.  But at least he refrains from letting it all hang out when we have company, unlike my youngest, who very recently made a trip through our dining room in just a sweatshirt and his underwear (why a sweatshirt with underwear, I haven't a clue) while I had several of my friends over.  Even when I shouted, "Hey, these ladies don't want to see that", he just shrugged and went on about his business.


Maybe these are just issues in our house.  Maybe they are just issues for mothers of sons.  Maybe they're the things that make for annoyances now but will make for funny memories somewhere down the road.  Who knows...I'm just glad I have my own bathroom.  :-)

Reflections of a Middle Aged....Grandma

Grandma...nana...memaw...granny...is there any way to become a grandmother without somehow also becoming 'old'? 


After receiving the news that our son and daughter-in-law are expecting their first baby next summer, my husband happily staked claim to the name, 'gramps'.  Seriously, 'gramps'??  How old are you?  Like 90? When I hear 'gramps', I picture a little old man with a bushy mustache and a walking stick, maybe sporting a pair of bib overalls or orthopedic shoes.  I certainly don't envision my 42 year old husband, who I happen to think still looks mighty fine and who, I'm fairly certain, would never wear bibs.


Somehow I thought we would have more time before we had to cross this particular bridge.  I at least thought our own nest would be empty before our kids started adding little birdies to their nests.  


I thought when grandparenthood became our reality, we would be older, grayer and more on top of our own lives.  I guess the truth is, 41 is older than I like to believe, and were it not for the help of Miss Clairol, I definitely would be grayer.  


As for being on top of things, here I feel like life is just beginning to settle down.  We are getting to a place where things just seem...easier.  We are hitting a nice stride...moving along at a comfortable pace.  We are, after 23 years of marriage, beginning to see the possibility of being 'just us' again.  


Not that we are pushing our own last little birdie out of the nest just yet, but we definitely are beginning to accept that our days as 'mommy and daddy' are numbered.  And making the move from parents of littles to parents of bigs is one we are fully prepared...even happy...to make.  


But grandkids?  Who saw that coming so soon?  "Not I", said the middle aged mom.  I do not feel like a grandma.  I do not look a nana.  I am not aptly prepared to be a mamaw.  I haven't a clue how to move from here to there.  


I have a friend with a grandson and two more grandchildren on the way who cannot believe I am not already over the moon at the prospect of having a grandbaby.  She assures me I will be.  I'm sure she's right.  After all, any child of my child is sure to steal my heart.  


So after mulling it over, I staked my claim to the name, 'MiMi'.  I don't think 'Mimi' sounds too old.  I think I could be a 'Mimi'.  After all, a 'Mimi' wouldn't wear a duster dress and keep her teeth in a cup...would she?  Well not this 'Mimi' anyway.  :-)

Cutting the Cord

I vividly remember the day my twin sons were born.  I know how I felt...both the joy and the pain.  I can clearly recall the events of the entire day, from the moment my water broke to the moment I first held each of them in my arms.  One thing I don't remember, however, is the cutting of the cord. I mean, I remember the doctor telling me it was happening, but I don't remember how it felt.  For me, it was utterly painless and held no long-term significance.  What I didn't realize then is that it wasn't the literal cords that would be tough to cut.

This year as been one of great stretching and testing...and cord cutting.  As my eldest twin got engaged, married and announced he and his wife are expecting, I felt the deep stabbing pain of having to let go before I was ready.  With precision, he sliced his way into adulthood with seemingly fearless abandon.  He didn't ask for permission, and he didn't ask for help.  He just took the leap and dove right into a life all his own.  When he cut the cord, it may not have been the painless procedure the doctor had performed when he was a newborn, but it certainly was quick.

While I wasn't thrilled about it in the moment, now I'm convinced his way was ultimately the best way to do it.  I say that because now I am faced with the opposite end of the spectrum with Son #2.  

Son #2 has no interest in having his cord cut.  He is seemingly content to stay in some kind of suspended state of adolescence.  He doesn't have any urgency about growing up and getting on with his adult life.  He is hanging on with all his might while I saw at the cord with the dull butter knife that is motherly nagging.

It isn't that he doesn't have aspiration of a grown up life.  He is, in fact, engaged to be married and in the beginning stages of planning to make a life with his fiance.  What he isn't is realistic.  He wants to keep one foot in his youth while only stroking the edge of adulthood.  He is trying to find a way to hang on to the carefree, worry free, trouble free life he has enjoyed to this point while at the same time trying to muster the courage to step off the edge of the cliff that real life can be.  

I understand his apprehension.  After all, life is a complicated game we all play where sometimes we win and sometimes we lose...and the rules are always changing...and the stakes keep going up.  But it's also an exciting, whirlwind ride where we find love, happiness and our passion.  Being out on our own is when we go from crawling to walking and then hopefully to running the race like a champion.  It's when we discover who we really are and what's really important in life.

When we're young, the whole world is contained within the walls of our parents' house, the halls of our high school and the fences around playgrounds and ball fields...and all those places are wonderful.  But when we step outside of that, we are introduced to the whole wide world.  We find endless possibilities.  We discover limitless potential.  We are opened up to brand new opportunities we never even knew existed.  And we realize, maybe for the first time, those things were always there...somewhere inside us, hidden beneath the baby fat of childhood.  

So as my son struggles to strap on his parachute and prepare for the flight of his life, I firmly and steadily push him toward the door.  Not because I don't love him or don't want him to stay here with his father and I, but because I do love him.  And because I love him, I want him to experience all this life has for him.  I want him to feel the thrill of being independent...the pride of accomplishment...the kind of contentment that comes from knowing one has earned what he has.  I want him to step out of the shadow of the boy and be the man I know he can be.  I want him, when this life is at it's end, to look back and be able to say he's lived it well...that he wouldn't change anything...and that it's been a wild and wonderful ride.

I love you Zachary.  Always have...always will.  Now jump!!

Changing direction

During the twenty-three years my husband and I have been married, we have worked opposite shifts for eighteen of them.  A dozen and a half years of living in a revolving door has been by far our single most challenging hurdle.  


For me, the primary downside of having a husband who works second shift is that I have been, for all intents and purposes, a single parent much of the time.  I have done the vast majority of homework helping, ball game watching and parent/teacher conference attending alone.  I have sat by myself at band and choral concerts, awards dinners, in doctor's offices and on many a set of cold, hard bleachers wishing beyond words to have my husband by my side.  


If you were to ask him, Dan would tell you this has been his biggest hurdle too. He has, after all, missed out on many, if not most, of the boys' major success and little victory moments.  He wasn't there when Kyle won the final match and consequently the entire meet for his wrestling team in the 8th grade.  He wasn't there for Aaron's National Junior Honor Society induction.  He missed out on seeing Zach the day he got his high school diploma.  My most special days with the boys have been among some of Dan's saddest.




It's the simple things of life...the things most married couples take for granted...that we have missed out on all these years.  Sitting down to dinner together.  Actually talking face to face rather than via text or phone.  Celebrating both the big and little things as a family.  Going to bed at the same time rather than me climbing out of it about the time he's climbing in.  We really haven't been able to share our whole lives...not the way we've wanted to...certainly not the way we thought we would when we got married oh so many years ago.  


All this separation has taken it's toll on my husband.  He has a deep anguish over the things he has sacrificed all these years...the precious moments he's missed...the things he has lost that he can never get back.  


As our children are growing up and now beginning to go away, he questions the choices he has made..we have made.  He asks if being a good provider was reason enough to be a part-time parent.  He wonders if, in the end, it will really have been worth it all.  


So here we stand on top of the hill that is being middle aged.  We look back and see a place we can never return to....a place both replete with glorious memories of days gone by and littered with the remnants of our past mistakes.  We look forward and wonder what still lies ahead.  We ask, can we erase any of the heartache of the past by choosing better in the future?  Can we heal the wounds of yesterday by applying the salve of today's wisdom and insight?  Is it possible to change directions so late in the journey and still end up exactly where we ought to be?  


As we face the second half of our lives...the time when we begin to go back to being 'just us'...we find ourselves redefining what 'happy' means and refining our plan for how to get there from here.   We know now that sometimes learning to live with less is the only way to truly have more....that dollars and cents can't always make up for everything we have to trade to get them.   We wish we had realized that much much earlier but we accept that we can't undo what's been done.  However, we also know it's not too late to start doing things differently.


So instead of laying down and beginning a slow roll over that proverbial hill, we are going to shift gears and try going a whole new direction.  It's scary.  It's exciting.  It's something new.  It's frankly something long overdue.  I take a deep breath, pray, pray and pray again and, hand in hand with the only man I've ever loved, step out into the great unknown.  And when we land...wherever we land...so long as we're still clinging to each other, I know everything will be all right.

Love can build a bridge

This morning as I passed through my living room, it was wall to wall boys, everyone seeming to sleep where they fell.  It's been like that a million Saturday mornings around here over the years...everyone crashing at our house after a football game or a big dance.  But never before has it been because we were up late getting ready for my son's wedding day.


Said son had apparently earned the right to sleep on the couch last night rather than the floor.  As I tiptoed by him, it hit me...this may be the last morning we ever wake up under the same roof.  


Oh, I'm sure he'll be around a lot.  It doesn't hurt that her parents live literally two blocks away.  But the possibility that he'll never again lay his head down in this house at night or open his eyes here in the morning is very real.  


If they were moving far away, perhaps the opportunity to have them spend extended time with us...whole weekends, entire holidays, summer vacations...would be more likely to present itself.  But since 'home' will be just a stone's throw away, we may discover we actually see them less rather than more.  


There's something about knowing you can get to a person any time you want in theory that often makes you get to them less in reality.  I have a best friend who lives just one street over.  I enjoy every moment she and I spend together.  I'm always amazed how many hours we can still burn on the phone.  But the truth is, we don't actually connect with each other very often.  Even my parents, the most incredible parents in the world may I add, who's house I drive by at least two or four times a day, do I rarely just stop in to visit.  When I do, I stay for hours on end.  I relish my time with them, but honestly, it doesn't happen as often as it should. 


The truth of the matter is two people can live in the same house and still not get to each other.  We get busy or distracted or disgruntled and the distance between our hearts can grow quite substantial even while we're sharing the same dinner table.  We figure we'll bridge the gap eventually, but before we know it, the bridge is burning behind us.


We take it for granted when someone is nearby that they'll always be nearby, that we'll always be able to reach out and touch them whenever we'd like.  We think there will always be time.  There will always be another chance.  But sometimes, there isn't.


So today and from now on, my husband and I will be steadily laying rungs of a bridge we pray will give our son and his wife a clear path to us.  And I hope they will be laying their own rungs from their end of it, so the distance between us...both literally and figuratively...will always be small.

New Lenses For Some Old Eyes

About two years ago, our longtime optometrist not so delicately informed me that my eyes were getting old.  He said by 40, I'd need reading glasses.  I doubted him.  But he was right.  


I remember the moment I knew he was right.  I was sitting comfortably on the couch, legs curled up behind me, happily eating yogurt from a cute little single-serve cup.  I turned the cup so I could see the nutritional information, not that it mattered, and was shocked to see nothing but a jumbled mess of blurry chicken scratches.  I quickly discovered, however, by simply moving the cup a little bit further away, things came quickly into focus.  


I knew at some point, the length of my arms wouldn't be enough to remedy the issue.  Given that, I broke down, admitted my vision wasn't what it ought to be and got a a pair of reading glasses.  Unfortunately, it hasn't just been my eyesight that's been a little out of focus lately.  


It's funny how a mom has trouble seeing her kids as anything other than...well, kids.  Even though we know they're getting bigger...bigger than us even...we still see them as 'little'.  We want to protect them and provide for them, to lead them and guide them.  We want to encourage them and inspire them, teach them and shape them.  We invest ourselves in them so fully that the line between them and us often gets very blurry indeed.


But our kids come to a place in their own journey where they need the lines to blur just a little less.  They start to make their own lives.  They make their own friends.  Want privacy.  Think they know it all.  They  
have opinions we don't always share.  Ideas we don't always understand.  Dreams we don't always embrace.  They feel their own feelings and think their own thoughts.  They have attractions that astound us and preferences that confound us.


And then the moment comes when, like with the writing on my yogurt cup, you just can't quite make them out anymore.  So you let them move away a little bit...an overnighter...a boy girl party...a driver's license...prom...college...and boom...your arm can't reach any longer.  You stretch as far as you can, but then you just have to let them go.  As your fingertips slip off the edge of their childhood, they become...their own.


At first, it's almost devastating.  All you see is an empty house filled with painful quietness.  You see that you're losing what you had...you're losing who you've been.  But then, you begin to see things differently, if you're willing to look through a fresh set of eyes.  


You see that all the years of bedtime prayers, loving care and a strong guiding hand have led to a beautiful place.  It's a place where little boys become great men and little girls become incredible women.  With a change of a prospective, you suddenly begin to see your children as the grown up...competent, capable, productive, insightful, wholly wonderful human beings they were destined to be all along.  You see that who they are is exactly who they ought to be.


And the beauty of it is, just about the time they have children of their own, they'll begin to see us with different eyes.  They'll understand why, even when we're truly happy for our kids, even when we're genuinely excited for them to spread their wings and fly...we still cry as we watch them grow and our heart still aches as we watch them go.