Why it was easier to separate from college-bound daughters than sons

My group. All done with me, but not really.

Yesterday I had lunch with my friend Bernice, whose last two children, fraternal twins, will leave for college in a week. We talked about the difference in how we separate from girls and boys.  To us, maybe to you, there is one.

Last year, after Sam left for his freshman year at Elon, I grappled with the same realization I had when our oldest son left and it was this: I would never again, know him as well as I did living with him every day.

Without the adhesive of daily interaction,  and without the intuitive advantages of shared gender, I would know him less and less. Our communication, always real and spontaneous, might become  something to locate now, like a pulse. Without those  daily glimpses into who he was becoming, I would have to understand him again from a distance.

But how?

If Sam and I spoke a single cross word to each other last August as the weeks closed in on his departure, I wouldn't be able to describe the exchange. I wanted the shortening period with him at home to be harmonious, and it was.  

In contrast, when our daughters were preparing to leave for college a few years ago, despite our close relationships, prickly tension developed between us in early August and didn't abate until after the drop off. Arguments were frequent and pointless, conversations were awkward, doors were closed - hard.  They separated the only way they knew how, which was to force the break. And they did us both a favor.

But, it was just that. Separation.

As my friend and I discussed,  it's easier to separate from a daughter, but not because we aren't close. It's easier because we are both women.  

In the work of getting daughters ready for the world, we're not just supportive, we're coaches. We've played this game.  We've done the girl's life already,  we can commiserate with the myriad emotions of a growing up a girl.

Unique as the events of their lives are to them - getting their ears pierced, finding a first friend, falling in love, getting a job, being accepted at their target college, being accepted everywhere - they are not strange or unfamiliar to us.  They are things we've done, and imagined them doing since the days of baby teeth and first haircuts. Even if we're not alike, we have gender in common. We know our daughters like our own voices.

We can relate to their journey, while we can only observe a boy's. We work harder to align our expectations with who she is and not who we were. We suppress judgement as she does things her way, not ours. We contain the urge to warn her away from things that she must encounter to learn who she is. We allow her time that we ourselves needed to cultivate grace and wisdom. We trust. We believe. We know. We've seen this movie.

It is an entirely exhausting and exhilarating work in progress that lasts for eighteen years before it's over. But when it is, it's not goodbye. Not really.

As chilly as things were leading up to their drop off days years ago,  I knew looking into the faces of my daughters that only one of my roles in their lives was ending. I was not hanging up my mother-of-a-daughter hat, but merely trading it for one better suited to the mother of a woman. With their looming freedom and growth, would come experiences we'd discuss as women who could relate to, and possibly learn from each other. 

But boys? 

"We already don't talk as much," said my friend about the son she'll launch next week. 

I shared two stories with her.

Ally me with my grown up girls

A month ago I invited my oldest son, a journalist, over for tacos and advice. I was to appear on a radio show where I'd talk about something I'd experienced in the community. I was nervous about appearing and knowing he'd understand this first-hand, I asked what he'd done to quell his nerves before his own radio appearances. He had some suggestions that were truly helpful. "Can I listen?" he asked. "Oh, I don't think you have to." I said. "Gotcha," he said, understanding completely.

Two weeks ago, my daughter, a bride-to-be, came home for several days.  We planned her reception seating, we picked up her dress, we had pedicures. We talked about relationships, about marriage, about learning to make decisions as a couple and defending them to others. I asked how I could be her ally and not her critic in her coming life as a new bride. She told me she never wanted to defend herself to me, and I nodded. It wasn't because we're both women that I understood this. I understood because I respect her as a person.

This week, our son will leave for his sophomore year at college.He will likely not be back next summer. There will be internships, chances to work and room with a friend in another city, opportunities to travel, etc.  "I don't know where I'll be," he said, in complete honesty.

It feels like goodbye this time. But the takeaway after a year in the empty nest is this: It's different to mother girls over boys, and it's different to separate from each. But with the distance that follows, and only after they find their independent footing comes an opportunity to be people in their lives as they will be in ours, who understand each other.  It trumps every other role we've had to date, and if we let it, it thins out the weight of goodbye. 

And that, Bernice, is where the difference ends.

A little something

Somebody said that no book is written once, or words to that effect. This is true,  I'm finishing my book for the fourth time. Finally, it's a keeper.

While I wrap up,  here is a little something that will make you smile.  It's about gossip and if you don't see yourself in it, you'll see someone you know.  

I'll be back in a week with a bigger something.

The man from the cereal aisle

People find each other, if they need to.

Several years ago I saw a man  in the cereal aisle at the supermarket. He was darting from one brand to another, reading the side panel information, trying to decide.  He rushed, like he had to be someplace else, soon.

He looked like he took care of himself. He was neatly dressed,  wearing a golf shirt tucked into jeans, and out-of- the-box white sneakers. Probably late fifties.   

"Excuse me," he said to me as I passed.

He held up two boxes of cereal. "Do you think there's a difference between these Raisin Brans? I mean, have you tried both? Because, you know that if it looks healthier," he indicated the side panel, "it's not always worth it, because healthy things don't always taste so good, right?" He paused. "What kind of cereal do you like?"

He wore no wedding ring. I remember thinking, divorced.

I said, "I like the Kellogg's, but I don't think there's a big difference. You'll be okay either way, I think,"  and I moved on. Before I rounded the  corner, I heard behind me, "Excuse me." When I turned, he was approaching a man around his own age. "Do you think there's a difference between the Post Grape Nuts and the store brand?"

At the check-out next to mine he chatted  with a woman behind him who struggled to soothe her fussy baby and seemed seconds away from a meltdown herself.

"I used to use the coupons," he was saying while he loaded the belt. "But I just didn't like being forced to buy what was on sale, do you know what I mean?"  She responded politely, "I guess, yeah."  He placed the last item on the belt and turned to the baby.  "This is a busy place for a little guy like you, isn't it? It certainly is."  He was still moving in that hurried way, like he was late for something else.

I shopped every Wednesday when I had children at home and he was there half the time. Same type of behavior...scrutinizing bread, cleaning products, batteries, chips, one product after another in the aisles, finger moving back and forth while he searched, rushing  in that quick, quick, quick, pick it out way. Straightening when a stranger passed, "Excuse me."

Once he came up behind me in line.  "You know," he said, "I thought it would be a lot busier today, with the storm coming. I was really, really surprised to see so few people here, weren't you?"  I said something like, "I know, hard to predict."

I remember thinking, lonely.

After I went back to work, I didn't see him again.

Two weeks ago, I entered the supermarket parking lot behind a driver who couldn't select from four spaces that were all close to the entrance. Turn, stop, start. Turn, stop, start. While he crawled along, trying  to pick one, I crawled along behind him, blocked from the spaces he wasn't selecting.  

I remember thinking, decide.

A few moments later, I walked into the store behind this driver and his companion.  She used a cane and limped along while  he darted ahead, then fell back to keep pace, then rushed ahead, etc. He was everywhere, circling her like a mosquito, it was like being behind six people.  They reached the carriages, he placed her cane inside and she said, "No. I'll push." He agreed and they moved on. She moved carefully, while he bounced around like a pinball.

I could not get away from these people. I went left, they veered left. I went right, so did they. They stood in the middle of aisles, talking to each other across displays,  scrutinizing their selections . Stopping, starting, stopping, starting.  "No wait!" she'd say, "Look at this one, it's better."

In the Crackers aisle a man in a Duck Dynasty t-shirt stood halfway between us, looking at the Triscuits display. The man left his companion and approached him.

"Hey!" he said to the t-shirt man, as if he knew him.

The t-shirt man turned.

"I love your shirt!" said the other man. "Duck Dynasty! I love that show!" He turned to his companion, "Look at his shirt!"

"Oh my God," she said, "We love that show! We just bought the floor mats!"

The t-shirt man, glanced down at himself, "Yeah," he said, "Friend got this for me."

"We love that show!"  said the other man, again.

"We watch it all the time," said his companion.

"Yeah, it's a good show," said the t-shirt man. "Take it easy," he said, walking away. 

The man said to his companion, "I should get a shirt like that," and she said, "Or a mug. They have mugs, too," and now I recognized him. The man from the cereal aisle, five or six years later. 

He was  exactly the same,  darting this way and that, bringing his companion a product, saying, "What do you think?"

When I passed them in the aisle, I slowed enough to check. Sure enough, they wore matching wedding bands.  I wonder how long it took for them to find each other, but I like to think that she had choices, and picked him,  before he was late for something else.

People find each other, if they need to. 

Trolls in the forest

 The average troll

Last night, I was to have the house to myself. Larry was traveling and Sam, who plays Sunset League baseball, had a game. I had a new movie to watch as well as a new novel to start and would prepare my favorite "me" dinner of steak and tater tots (it used to be tacos before I made tacos half a million times for my children).

We were in the middle of a heat wave. It would be over 90 degrees when Sam threw the first pitch.Frankly, I didn't think he should play, but he's 18, he's a college sophomore, and does this for fun. 

Mid-morning, Larry texted me "suggesting" I try and catch Sam's game. He had been looking forward to it himself before his trip came up, maybe I could go instead.  

Well, no, I thought. I will not be Mommy and Daddy tonight. Tonight I will be Mommy handing Sam his water and sunscreen as he leaves, and making him his own dinner of steak and tater tots when he gets back. 

I was fine with this. Until my troll showed up.  Her name is "Selfish Mother."  

Selfish Mother reminded me of how life is short and that Sam will probably be too busy next summer to even come home and while he is on the field, doesn't he deserve to see someone cheering him on from the stands? Does it even matter that he had to explain to you in (embarrassingly) recent years that in baseball you have to be up to score?  Of course not. Was it your happy, proud face that mattered? Yes, it was. With all the opportunities I have to do exactly what I want, asked Selfish Mother, couldn't I just eek out a few hours for the sake of my son's happiness? 

In comparison, asked Selfish Mother, would this be my last opportunity to have steak and tater tots? 

As promised, today I will discuss trolls.   

First, a word about Mood Therapy (est 1980-ish) ) which is about changing our view of reality by changing what we tell ourselves about it. It is based on scrutinizing self-talk. Anyone who has even flipped through a self-help book knows that self-talk goes on every minute of the day, and not always in silence if you can drive and pretend to be on the phone.

Every now and then, like everyone does, I get hung up on a negative thought, or a social stumble, or a mistake that might have hurt someone's feelings.  Sometimes my "self-talk" leads me to sulking or dwelling, or feeling guilty, etc. Other times my self-talk leads me to the drive-thru at McDonald's, where it is very supportive of cheeseburgers, as long as I don't have fries.

When we're fragile, or feeling insecure, or overwhelmed, or unloved, or not popular, or haven't published our novels yet, self-talk can be very unfriendly.  

I call this "Trolls in the Forest-talk" and as crazy as it sounds, (that's"Crazy Troll" talking) I've shared my thoughts about troll-talk with people I respect who have responded with, "That's. So.True."  When someone says "That's. So.True," a blog post is born.

Herewith:

Susan's Trolls in the Forest Philosophy for all Ages

 Life is a forest.  It is a magical, sunlit, dense-with-meaning, occasionally gloomy, but overall mystical place of beauty. There will be paths, of course, some which exist and some which may need to be forged. The length and depth of the forest is not known, but it's not your job to know. It's your job to travel, take in the surroundings and rest when you need to.

In every forest are trolls. They vary in shape and size, some are fierce and frightening, some are big and annoying. None of them are attractive. They will stop you. They will tell you things. They will make you sit with them. They aren't pleasant, yet they seem truthful so you listen.

As you listen to troll-talk, the forest grows gloomy. The path looks different and difficult now, shrouded in shadows from overhead, gnarly branches.  Your troll ignores this and continues to advise you of your mistakes, your failures and your shortcomings. You wonder: could  such an ugly troll be right? But there you sit, listening.

When you realize you need to move on, your troll leaves you and you resume your travel but now you're thinking about how tired you are, how hungry, how hard this journey really is. You think about this instead of things you should be thinking about and the forest darkens around you. You suspend travel for another day. 

Your troll meanwhile, has moved down the path to wait for you.

The thing to remember about trolls is that they are there to challenge your confidence and attitudes. They thrive on making you question yourself. It's their job. When a troll has done its job, it's good for another visit.  The only way to deal with a troll is to look right at it and call it what it is. 

If you're a visual type (and by now in this post, I hope you are) look at the troll . Talk to it. Say, "Troll" and move on.  If another troll pops up further along do the same thing. Have fun. Punch your troll, push your troll over, maybe refer your troll to the forest of someone who done you wrong. But keep moving.

Some people can't see the forest for the trolls, but with all my heart, I believe we would like to. Keep your reasonable mind open and clear because it casts light on the path and trolls don't enjoy a well-lit path. They lose their power, they shrink. Eventually they become too small to see and get stepped on which is how many trolls meet their end.

The End

My troll wanted me to attend the game out of guilt. I told my troll that guilt as a motive is more selfish than anything, and then I pushed my troll over. 

Then, I kind of wanted to change my plans. 
I kind of wanted to see an inning or two. 
Maybe three. 
I kind of wanted to wring another nice memory out of the summer.

Sam smiled at me from the mound.
He pitched a shut-out. 
Later,we had steak and tater tots together, and he explained what "shut-out" means.

All is well in the forest.

Over-over

Foreword:  This post will be about coping with the  loss of  my brother Bill and it's going to be sad. You may wish to leave  and come back next week when I'll post about trolls.  If that's the case,  I will understand. On the other hand, I recently posted "Now to Then and Back Again" about the shock of grief,  and was contacted by readers who found comfort in those words. If life isn't  always happy and funny, at least the way to deal with sad and serious can be shared.

Remember. Next week, trolls.

The basic process

Over-over

It stops. 

The struggle stops. The suffering ends.    

And then he's gone.

The place in your mind where you did your circular thinking  - I need him in my life, but his suffering needs to end, but I need him in my life, but his suffering needs to end - is an empty room, clear of debris.

It's over. 

It's not over-over.

Beyond the death, the reaction, the announcing of it, the work to cobble together a service which will both offer comfort and tell of an entire life, is where over-over begins. It starts the first night you don't have to think about saying goodbye in public, when you take your grief off display.

Over is what was. 

Over-over is what won't be.

Over-over happens when you drive behind a truck that looks too big for its driver like his seemed. As you watch, the driver doesn't just reach for something on the passenger seat, but disappears from view altogether to fetch something from the glove compartment or floor, the way he would have.

You will not see that truck parked at  gatherings anymore, or know that inside  he'll be waiting for you - hand raised high so that you are sure to see him in the crowd.

Over-over happens when you're in line at the supermarket and you see a short, wiry guy in a baseball cap standing a register away, who looks like he should sleep more, party less, and probably shave. He holds a six pack and a package of hotdogs, and stares at the woman in front of him who is demanding to know why they stopped selling the generic brand of tile cleaner that she likes.

You will not hear about the kinds of people who really piss him off anymore.

Over-over happens when you're in your work out, or folding laundry and realize it's Tuesday - the night you had dinner together each week. You crumple a little as though the wind has been knocked out of you. It's less startling than the last time . You know now that  there will be more moments like this bad one and  that it's easiest to stop and wait it out.

Over-over happens when you roam through a day without a plan, without doing anything especially meaningful other than to let your mind travel where it wants to go. You realize you're wading into sadness that is beyond the help of those who would do anything to make you feel better and it scares you.

In the days that follow, you cry less often and less easily. But you always  cry to remember his face when he told you, "This scares the shit out of me" or, his eyes when he said, "I dream about being healthy." Or, the way you helped him reconstruct a memory of his youth the way you would help someone remember lyrics to a song.

Over-over happens when you sit alone with your too-heavy thoughts and consider how grief has already changed you. You don't know when, or even if you'll feel better, and it's occurring to you that this is what has replaced him.

You look to the night sky and say to him, "I don't think this is going to get better."

You wait.  You want a response.

You don't get it.

He  doesn't appear like a deer at the edge of the forest, as you hoped he would.

And yet, later, something lifts. You don't know what to call it, but you feel like you do after a good night's sleep.  

Later still, you're loading the dishwasher and you think of something funny he did once. You smile. You hear yourself laugh.

In the days that follow, it happens more often, and more easily.

You know you'll have trouble when you see that supermarket guy again.

But you know there will be more moments like the dishwasher ones.

You know they will come, as over-over begins.

Don't wait

Bill and son Billy, about ten years ago. Photo by Phil White.

Tomorrow we will celebrate the life of my brother, who died at 53 years old. However things went with his life, one thing is sure:  he loved others openly, and felt loved in return.

Nothing is more important.

Don't wait.

If you love someone,  tell them.

Tell them why.

Tell them often.

If you love someone, and you don't tell them, and you don't tell them why, and you don't tell them often, one thing is sure: they will never feel the love they deserve and neither will you.

Don't wait.

Tell them.

Tell them why. 

Tell them often.

And one thing is sure:  you will be loved in return. 

Don't wait.

The magic of nine months

Disclaimer:  I am going to speak for everyone with grown children in the post which follows. I shouldn't. But I had to choose between being a know-it-all or starting every paragraph with the passive, more sensitive "It's been my experience" and that will just make you tired.  Herewith...

It's been about nine months since many of us dropped off a college freshman,  then went home to store seasonal clothes, books, and extra linen in their rooms. By now, many of us are meeting the people they became in this near year apart. 

Few things change a young adult like the first year in college.

You catch glimpses of it during the holidays, when they're home for the first time since the drop off.  Something's different. You're not quite sure what "it" is but you know it wasn't there before. They're a little wistful.  They hug you more. They smile easily. They seem peaceful. They keep you company when you're cooking and come into the living room where you're reading and say, "So, what's up?" 

Eventually you realize that the "it" is not a passing mood,  but maturity. Not maturity in the wash-their-own-clothes and make-their-own-meals sense.  Maturity in that, by now they have chosen to perform beyond their own expectations, or screw up magnificently, but have lived with the outcomes. Some that were affirming, others that led to consequences that you will learn about over some Thanksgiving dinner many years from now. 

           

It can be an awkward little dance we do at the start of this first summer back at home. We don't want to enforce curfews or nag them to eat better or tell them when to get up. We're not those parents anymore. We're more like the aunt and uncle they were always particularly fond of.  Encouraging, supportive and special like parents, but no longer the factor in their decision making that we used to be.  

           

They don't need rules but they may want advice. They look at us when we're speaking. They disagree with tact, even humor. They respect our space and our changed lives. And, they answer to themselves; not to flaunt their new authority over their choices, but because they know more about the cause and effect of choice.

           

There was always a unique and fleeting moment in the reorientation to our children, after they traveled away, grew up and came back and it was in observing them as others might. The ones who didn't actually raise them. 

You know them well, you love them like you always did, you're still as proud of what they've achieved. But in that moment, you realize who they have chosen to become, and what they expect to achieve - under their own influence.           

     

There is a certain equality that we approach with our children after they leave for college, and all of us have had a chance to stretch our lives, broaden our roles, pursue new projects.  We see what they've accomplished ,with nobody clicking on the lights, opening the shade and saying "time to get up." They begin to notice what we do that has nothing to do with parenting.

           

"Update your blog," said my daughter recently.

           

"Where are you on the novel?" asked my son a month ago.           

It's lovely, surprising, and a little poetic the way our children come into our lives a new person, for the second time,  after only nine months.

It's kind of magical.

Welcome back, kids.