On Empty Nest Syndrome

Saturday morning, Jose came into the bedroom and lay down for another brief morning nap. If you’re not a morning person, then you are probably unfamiliar with the morning person sleep in. A morning person will still have to wake up at 4:30 a.m. to pee. No matter what. And once up, then you’re up for an hour or two. It’s a really nice time of the day. It’s the time that I use to watch whatever late night shows that I’ve DVR’d – the shows I can’t normally watch because I’m asleep or some cartoon network, star wars, sci-fi or dinosaur video is taking over the television. About the time that everyone else is beginning to stir (around 8:00 or 9:00) I’m ready for a nap. Which actually works better because then Jose (who is not a morning person) will get up and want to clean (something that is as bizarre a Saturday morning ritual as … well I can’t think of anything as bizarre as wanting to clean first thing on a Saturday). So while he cleans, I go hide in the room. My mother would tell you that this is not a new pattern for me.

Anyway, back to the story. Jose came into the room and laid down while I was reading. He was drifting in and out of sleep – as evidenced by the occasional snore and the slow motion of his foot back and forth. Suddenly, he asked if I wanted to go to eat breakfast at Cracker Barrel with the gift certificate that we had gotten. I said sure, let’s wake up the kids. And he responded, that he thought we’d just go together. “Like a date?” I asked. And then we spent a bout 10 minutes discussing how we felt guilty if we went out somewhere by ourselves. And it’s true. I don’t really want to go anywhere or do anything too fun unless the boys are with us. It seems unfair to not let them enjoy in the moment. Now, I have seen on television and read about those parents who will often leave their children and go to the movies, or go out to dinner, or go away for a weekend. And I just can’t quite get my head around such an occurrence. It seems to me that actually having children is not unlike signing a contract that says you will forgo the right to pee alone, bath alone, have a long meaningful conversation on the telephone for the next 20 years or so. At least that’s what I signed up for when I decided to have children.
And Jose, ever the pragmatic said “Well, they are just going to leave us anyway.” Which really isn’t anything to ever say to a mother. Sure, we realize that eventually they will leave – but we don’t think about it. And of course that’s why when they do leave, mothers are in tears and walk about lost for days, weeks and months on end. It is perhaps the only argument for teen age pregnancy – as those mothers who were afraid to lose their children to the real world, now have someone else who needs them. And really, after a few years of having to pee with an audience, it’s almost impossible to do so alone. In fact, I believe that when all three of my boys finally leave the house when they are 30, that I might have to start peeing on the front porch just so I’ll have the company of the passersby.

I realize that with a 3 year old, I have quite some time before I will have to worry about an empty nest. And with the economy and college, I’m sure that my boys will be living her for quite some time. Shoot with the Hispanic heritage thing going on, I might even end up living like the Waltons with everyone’s family. And you know, that’s not a bad idea. I can think of things that are a lot less appealing than living on a family compound so to speak. It sort of goes against the Broadbent/ Cameron frame of existence – but my dad and his brother live across the street from each other – though I don’t know how often they see each other or talk.

All I really know is that knowing that they will someday leave to live with some substandard woman who presumes that she knows everything – you wait, she’ll be just like that – makes me really focus on making each day, argument, whine, and giggle something to be cherished. I have long believed, said, postulated that life is about making memories – and I hope that we are creating some good ones.

On Entertaining

There are people in this world who love to have people come to their house. And when they have company, they have themed serving dishes, matching plates and dinnerware. They are capable of making their table look as if it could appear in a food magazine.

I am not one of those people. My idea of matching dinnerware is paper or Styrofoam plates (they do match and I have a full place setting for 100 guests), plastic cups, plastic silverware, and paper towel napkins. The only serving dish I have is a glass cake stand that can be flipped over to serve dip and veggies, chips or fruit (maybe cheese and crackers). Every meal that I have served in my house to company has been a serve yourself buffet type of meal – and as I have an eat in kitchen it’s really the way to go. I do not have a formal dining room. I don’t even have one of those look but don’t touch rooms. As every piece of furniture in my room was free or cost less than $100 (which was what we spent on a used 3 piece living room suit that someone was just going to donate to good will), then I have no qualms about messes, spills, or eating in the living room. I defend this style by saying it really is a matter of personality. It’s easy, there is little clean up, and it gives everyone a chance to visit in comfort – no pressure about table manners at my house.

The problem is that deep inside of me resides my Aunt Martha – or probably My Aunt Martha’s mama (whom my mother called Big Mama). And that part of me feels like such a casual approach to a dinner party is entirely inappropriate. Guests should not be sitting on a couch, hovering over the coffee table. I should purchase a small card table (2 or 3 if necessary) and allow them to eat at a table like civilized folks. I should have nice dinnerware, glassware, and silverware that lets the guests know that I am honored to have them in my home. And in my defense with this issue, I have purchased plastic plates and glasses that match from the Dollar Store when I’ve had some guests over for a summer BBQ (on clearance, each plate was 25 cents – a bargain I thought, so I got 12). There should be linen tablecloths and napkins. Place cards are really not necessary but would be a nice touch. If a buffet style was called for, then all food items should be placed on the side board, not on the kitchen counter. And the kitchen should be closed off, if possible from company view so as not to display the cooking mess that was the result of the feast that has been prepared. If it is not possible to hide the kitchen area, then all dishes must be cleaned after they have been spooned artfully into serving dishes – that also match the dinnerware, or have a holiday theme.

That is the demon that I face when people come to my house. And though I never succumb to the feeding said demon, I am forever more wondering if those who come to my house are somehow judging – and then letting it go as “she doesn’t care about those things.” And I do care, just not enough to do anything about it. Fine dinnerware and serving dishes falls into that category of – not going to spend my money on it – frivolous. Because nothing will ruin my appetite more than thinking that the bowl that the mashed potatoes are in cost $60 – for a bowl – that looks like the bowl I saw at Fred’s for $1.50. Why do you spend $60 on a bowl? And a gravy boat – really –

In the end, if my Aunt Martha was going to infect me with the desire to have proper dinner parties (proper by southern lady definition) then perhaps she should have also infected me with the belief that spending large amounts of money on such items was worthwhile. Though, I’m sure her answer to that was that you buy quality and take care of it. But really, I’d rather go to the movies, or do something that would create a memory. And my self talk argument to that is those proper dinner parties at Christmas, in which my brother, sister and I were relegated to the basement to play ping pong until dinner was served and we had to sit in the kitchen at the little table forever as we were the youngest in the family – created a tradition and an expectation that is with me to this day – thus the blog in the first place I guess. I’m just not grown up enough yet to have those parties and those things and to care about it. And to be truthful, I’m not sure if I ever want to be.

On Secret Santa

We’ve been doing secret santa at school since Thanksgiving. I’ve been very lucky in that I drew the name of a woman whom I think is “good people.” I can’t say that I know her very well, but since August, I have not seen her upset, grumpy, or looking worn out in anyway. That may be due, in part, that I strongly suspect that she may just be passed her PMS days which are the days that I invariably feel upset, grumpy and worn out. But that is really neither here nor there.

Now, I have been approaching this secret Santa thing a little differently. Instead of just leaving gifts, I’ve been leaving little stories, or copies of one of my blogs. I’ve been taking this opportunity to share something of myself, more than just a few gifts. But on the off chance that she didn’t appreciate my humor or gift for gab, I’ve left most stories with a small gift of some type. I left her the story about my grandma’s house with a canister of ribbon candy.

Anyway, I told another coworker that I feel like the whole secret Santa thing is a bit like flirting, in a weird way; perhaps because my idea of flirting closely resembles stalking – see my story about meeting Jose early in the blog history. It’s leaving these little gifts that you think will just make them happy if only for a second. It’s like those little gifts that your boyfriend, lover, or husband leaves you unexpectedly on your pillow, or brings home at the end of the day. It’s the surprise of it and the thoughtfulness – perhaps not the oh it was just what I wanted, but more the you thought of me in the middle of your day – when I wasn’t with you – that seems to envelop me.

I also suppose that it is the giving of gifts that I enjoy so much. I have not been nearly excited to receive gifts from my secret Santa. Though I do look at my mailbox with a bit of longing each day as I walk past the office. There is a moment of joy when you see that little gift just sitting there. It’s an uplifting experience. But I have really enjoyed trying to figure out what type of gifts to give to my secret Santa. To create a theme of sorts and find ways to share it with this stranger – and allowing the anonymity of it all to be an excuse to lay it out on the table – to share more of myself than I would have perhaps normally have done.

It is, at 38, a recapturing of my late teens and early 20’s when you’d meet someone new and spend all night at a coffee shop talking and getting to know each other – without any of the life that has collected and clung in the interim. A chance to be me: not mother, not wife, not teacher . . . just me. And there is joy there.

Christmas 2007

Just a short video of photos from our visit with Santa

On Handicapped Spaces

I don’t know how many of you shop at Walmart – it’s my version of the Mall. But Walmart, especially the new and improved SUPER Wal-marts have lots and lots of handicapped parking places.

Now the Western Student in my often approaches parking at Walmart like I used to approach finding a parking place on campus. Sure there’s a dozen spots on the back of Diddle lot, but really, who wants to carry all their crap out that far. And Amy doesn’t make second trips for anything – it’s waste of time. So, I used to spend a fair amount of time trolling the parking lot waiting for the best space. Later, when I started to go to the gym, I would have to actively fight the urge to find a close space and instead approach the walk as free exercise. I mean if I’m going to pay a monthly fee to exercise, then I might as well park in the back half of the lot at Walmart, that’s at least ½ a mile right there. And when I had children, my idea of an ideal spot is the one next to the buggy return. That way, I don’t have to carry any children into the store and no one will be able to steal my precious babies from my car as I return the cart to the cart return like they do on television to all those nice white trash ladies who usually end up in jail later.

What’s the point – where are we going with this? Well, it has occurred to me, on more than one occasion that our moral code about not parking in handicapped spots at Walmart have some carry over in the most unusual places. Or perhaps, I’m the only one. I don’t park in a handicapped spot. I know that it only says tow-away zone – and those of you who know me, know that a $60 towing fine is more than punishment enough to keep me from using the prime parking space. But somewhere down the line in the development of my moral compass, I have it in my mind that parking in a handicapped parking place is against the law. I mean, go to jail, pay a stiff fine, do not pass go, do not collect $200 – AGAINST THE LAW. I don’t know for sure that is or isn’t. I’m sure it may be some sort of traffic violation. But that’s really neither here nor there right now.

The strange thing is that I have, for a very long time, felt the same way about the handicapped stall in the restrooms. I don’t know if they have handicapped stalls in men’ restrooms – I imagine they must though I can’t really get my head around that one – but in women’s restrooms, the handicapped stalls are the largest stalls. They are also the ones that always have the baby changing station. And if it weren’t for that combo, I would never have begun to use the handicapped stall on a regular basis. Until Elijah as born, I believed that the handicapped stalls were against the law for someone who wasn’t handicapped to use. I don’t think it was a conscious sort of belief, but it still lay there and was an integral part of how I chose a bathroom stall. But I don’t think I’m the only one. I was at a professional conference on Friday and the handicapped stalls were the ones that were the last to be taken each time. Which worked well for me as it meant no waiting. But that’s when it occurred to me – other people don’t think they are supposed to use the handicapped stall either. And that was quickly followed by the thought – well, who says someone in a wheelchair doesn’t have to wait in line just like the rest of us. Though to be perfectly honest with you and myself, that last thought was more like preparing an argument should someone confront me with my use of said handicapped stall. It’s always good to walk into confrontational situations a bit prepared.

And really, it shouldn’t be any big deal. The handicapped stalls are much nicer than the other stalls. They are bigger with room to maneuver. They are definitely more convenient when you have guests in the bathroom with you. Trying to pee with two children in the stall with you is really the newest form of American torture. (in fact, I’m quite convinced that if I could record the sound of my children whining, it could be played to political prisoners for a remarkably short time and they would be spilling their guts just to get a reprieve – already, I have no secrets). But despite the larger space and the convenience of almost always being free, I feel a bit defiant every time I walk into the stall. I tense up like someone is going to say, hey where’s your handicapped card that lets you pee in that stall!!! What is that – exactly? Ultimately, it’s just a good thing that I have learned through my life long speed peeing competition with Jason to get in and out quick - because should someone ever confront me, I’ll be doomed to the tiny stalls once more.