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4am

I went to bed last night in wool socks and thermal pants and a hoodie.  I woke up at 4am, burning from the inside, and frantically stripped down to a tank top and my underwear. My husband jokes, “Who needs a furnace with you in the bed?” He tries to put his arm around my waist and pull in close.  I shove him away.  “I love you but you CANNOT touch me right now. I will combust.”

As I lay there, it occurs to me that I haven’t had a hot flash like this in a while.  And it is at that moment, I realize I’ve forgotten to replace my estrogen patch.  To be honest, I wasn’t sure it was working, but I stand corrected.  It is a bit of a relief to realize that I can chemically prevent these hot flashes and night sweats.  But the 4am wake up has been pretty consistent, regardless of my body temperature or my medication.

Sometimes it’s the dog.  She’s an old lady with a bladder tumor.  No matter how late we let her out, it’s pretty much a guarantee that she’ll scratch the bedframe between 3 and 4am… her way of saying, “Let me out or I’ll pee on your rug.” 

Sometimes it’s my own bladder that wakes me up.  Other times it’s my husband’s restless legs.  In the past I was able to register these things, roll over, and go back to sleep.  

But my brain will no longer allow that.  The 4am wakeup has become time to contemplate every thought I pushed aside during the day.

My internal monologue admonishes me. You shouldn’t be self-deprecating in a job interview.  You blew it. She questions me.  Are you pushing this kid hard enough?  Are you pushing too much?  She reminds me of all the ways I should be a better person.  Volunteer more.  Eat better.  Clean the garage.  Call your parents.  She worries about things beyond her control.  Government corruption.  Human rights violations.  War.  Violence.  Freaking Epstein.  Cancer.  Climate change. She realizes she’s spiraling and tries to reign it in.  Deep breaths.  Clear your mind.  Box breathing.  5 things you see.  4 things you feel.  3 things you hear.  Is that a train?  Ugh.  The neighbor’s dog is barking again.  How many freaking dogs do they have over there?  

It’s a relief when the 5am alarm buzzes.  That voice in my head doesn’t go away, but she fades to the background.  She starts to focus on the day-to-day things that keep me occupied.  Brew the coffee.  Feed the dog.  Water the plants.  She can focus on the things that bring me joy.  Hot shower.  Gorgeous yarn.  Hilarious kids. 

I’m on vacation this week; February break is a welcome respite from the midwinter chaos of middle school. These 4am wake-ups feel less disruptive when I can manage the pace of the rest of my day.  So I’m easing into things over here.  I’m sipping on my second cup of coffee, quietly strategizing how to balance my errands and my lunch plans and my crochet project.  I realize how lucky I am to have this moment.  How lucky I am to have these ordinary days… and occasional sleepless nights. 

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Superbowl

I have long believed that the Monday after the Superbowl should be a holiday.  I mean… for everyone.  But maybe especially for teachers.  And MOST especially for Middle School Teachers. 

Think about it for a moment.  Imagine a middle schooler.  Twelve or thirteen or fourteen years old.  The twelve-year-olds are just emerging from elementary school.  They’re gaining awareness and independence and trying with varied levels of success to NOT be little kids anymore. By thirteen, they’re a ball of emotion. They want so badly to be liked… but they don’t LIKE anything.  Or at least that’s how they want to appear. The fourteen-year-olds are beginning to think they know it all.  They’re full of unearned swagger and strong opinions.  All of them are emerging social scientists and researchers; constantly on the watch for what will push them down a path toward social acceptance, and terrified of anything that might ostracize them from their peers.  

Take that storm of hormones and emotions and intensity.  Then add to it a jolt of televised, late-night, emotionally-laden warfare between THEIR team and whomever happens to be on the other side of the ball.  

Feed them crap and caffeine. Let them stay awake, shouting at their screens, full of adrenaline and anticipation and, eventually… disappointment. Hope they sleep a little.  Then send them to school. 

*****

“Mrs. Glennon, I didn’t sleep at all last night.  I was just so sad,” from the tiny twelve year old who had been so eager to celebrate with his family.  

“Drake Maye is dead to me,” declared the teen who proudly sported an ‘I love Drake Maye’ tee shirt three days ago. 

“I can’t learn VOCABULARY today.  I’m in mourning,” from the student who loves big words. 

“Did you SEE that? The ball went RIGHT THROUGH HIS HANDS! How could he miss that catch?” from the kid who confidently believes that he’s more skilled than a professional wide receiver. 

*****

They feel everything so intensely.  This level of passion is what makes middle schoolers so endearing… and so exhausting.  They are both acutely aware and utterly clueless.  

The first half of every class was spent trying to refocus their limited energy and attention.  The second half of the class was spent admitting my failure to achieve that goal.  

By last period, I had nearly given up.  I had scrapped the vocabulary lesson in lieu of a slightly more engaging personal memoir.  The students were only half-working, and I was counting down the minutes to the final bell.  

“Mrs. G, can you help me?” one of them asked, with his back turned to me.  I walked toward him, and as I approached, he turned his face to reveal a sharpied piece of clear scotch tape stuck purposely and securely to his top lip.  His impish smile was irresistible, and I couldn’t help but laugh.  

“That’s quite a moustache,” I giggled, and continued to help the other students. 

“Yeah.  It’s really growing fast,” he agreed.  

A few moments later, I looked up again.  He had attached more scotch tape to form a fu-manchu.  A minute later, he had a goatee.  Then sideburns.  

By the time he was fully bearded, the laughter of a group of overtired, disappointed pre-teens felt like medicine.  I belly-laughed with them, finally accepting defeat.  

The memoirs and the vocab can wait for tomorrow, because they are just kids, after all. And (luckily) the Superbowl only comes once a year.  

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Bored

My husband sometimes wakes up on a Sunday and tells me he has a lot to do.  When I inquire further, he might explain, “I have to do laundry, and fix the door, and watch a football game.”  Any more than three items on his list, and he can’t commit.  No promises.  

In response, I’ll look at my to-do list for the day.  It contains twenty-three items and an optional four more “in case I have time.”  

I don’t know how to be bored.  I remember making a study schedule in High School.  It blocked my day into 15-minute increments so that I could squeeze in a biology review between school and my part-time job, or finish my algebra in between piano lessons and babysitting.  

I remember having a panic attack in college because my steel drum band rehearsal went a little long, and I needed to squeeze in dinner before my waitressing shift, which would back right up into my RA duty.  

Sitting still is not my forte. 

I built a life around that busy-ness.  Teaching.  Kids.  Church.  Bell Choir.  Book club.  Curriculum committee.  Fundraising.  Pie making.  Tutoring.  Crochet class.  Yoga.  Crafting.  Cleaning.  Cooking.  So much cooking…

Football games. School plays. Driving places.  Driving back. Taxidermy class (not mine). Choir rehearsal (also not mine).  Game nights with friends and pot lucks and drinks with colleagues after work.  

*****

Today, I woke up early and put dinner in the crock pot.  I taught all day and I ran a crochet club after school.  I stayed a little late to finish up tomorrow’s copying and lesson plans.  But I didn’t want to go home.   

I cannot abide the thought of another night of television, or crocheting, or diamond art.  I don’t want to clean another thing or cook another thing or read another thing.  

I am bored.  

Bored.  

Bored??

Who am I?  “Only boring people get bored,” my dad used to tell me.  “Find something to do.”  

*****

Of course there are things to do.  I can write.  I can read or crochet or cook.  I suppose I could make plans with friends.  Or go shopping.  Paint the ceiling.  Fold some laundry.  

Exercise is probably a better option.  I need something that raises my heart rate.  I need a little adrenaline in my life.  The older I get, the more I gravitate toward ‘comfortable’ leisure.  I love sitting by my fireplace in cozy clothes.  I love sipping wine with friends at a local restaurant.  I love learning a new stitch and knotting yarn into something beautiful.  

But I miss the feeling of riding my motorcycle too fast around a hairpin curve.  I miss the thrill of being lost in a new city.  I dream about spring break; drunken karaoke and parasailing and truth or dare.  

What do you do for an adrenaline rush in your 40s?  I don’t have the money for travel.  I don’t have the stamina for running.  I’ve lost the desire to bungee-jump. 

Is this why people play pickleball? 

Is this what a mid-life crisis feels like?  An almost-empty nest?  Am I going to be the kind of person who takes up polar plunging or skeet shooting? 

*****

I’m in my kitchen, making tea, with John Mellencamp singing in the background. “Life goes on… long after the thrill of living is gone.”  Damn.  I loved that song when I was 16.  It lands differently at 46.  

But I have to believe he’s a little bit wrong.  The thrill can’t be gone.  It didn’t disappear.  I just stopped seeking it.  I stopped taking risks.  I stopped trying new things.  I stopped meeting new people.  

Not on purpose.  Just because I have a beautiful, full, fulfilling life.  I stopped seeking because I had found what I was looking for.  

And as these kids grow and leave, as I move closer to retirement, I’m catching glimpses of what comes next.  I was so busy building this part that I forgot to plan for the next part.  

*****

The more I think about it, the more it seems obvious that THIS is the answer.  I’ve written myself out of my funk.  It’s what has always worked for me.  

Writing is my solace and my gift and my prayer.  It connects me to myself and to the divine and to you.  

For years, I’ve imagined what it would look like to focus more on writing; to strive for something published; to gain an audience for my musings.  

I just looked back.  I started this blog in 2017.  Eight years ago.  Back then, I didn’t really have time for writing.  I woke at 4am to jot down my thoughts before the kids got up.  I hid in my bedroom and typed while dinner roasted in the oven.  I wrote in the car during football practice.  Nearly a decade of stolen moments, necessary for my sanity. 

One hundred and fifty-seven posts.  More than 300 pages. That’s something. It’s a start, anyway.  

Talk about an adrenaline rush.  I can’t think of anything scarier than a book proposal.  I think I’m done being bored.  Thanks for the advice, Dad.  

Time to prove Mellencamp wrong.  Wish me luck. 

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Storm

I stepped away from my church a few months ago.  I know, I know.  It was a surprise to me, too.  I love my church.  I love those people.  But all that love coupled with my lack of boundaries created a toxic sense of obligation.  I was trying to minister to the young people and take care of the older people and there was always something that needed to be done.  I watched as people left, or died, or quietly stopped showing up, and I kept trying to fill the void. 

Being part of this aging congregation felt a little like watching your elderly neighbor shovel snow. Except your whole neighborhood is elderly and the snow just keeps coming down. I felt like I was shoveling as fast as I could, making a little progress, and then someone came by with their snowplow and blocked my driveway again.  I know the plow driver wasn’t trying to make things harder for me, and we had a shared mission to clear the neighborhood, but in that moment, I felt totally and utterly defeated.  For my own sanity, I had to step away. 

I’ve had a few months to recover, and I’m starting to feel a little more whole. For years, I’ve divided my to-do list into three categories; home, work, and church.  With an entire category gone, I feel like a better teacher, a better parent, a better human.  My mother is cancer-free and back in Florida, my kids are less dependent on me, and for the first time in decades, I understand what it means to have leisure time.  Not just time for fun (I’ve always tried to prioritize that), but time that is unclaimed, unscheduled, and entirely my own. 

There’s something beautiful… and terrifying… about this change of pace. 

*****

I was eleven years old the first time a boss told me, “If you have time to lean, you have time to clean.”  That boss was my grandfather and I had been taking orders and clearing tables at his hot dog stand; I had just handed him an order and I rested my elbows against the countertop.  “Rookie mistake,” my mom told me later.  “You’ll learn.”  I washed all the windows in the restaurant that day.

As a GenX-er, I was raised in a culture that revered the story of the retiree who never took a vacation in his 20 year career.  We admired the mother who never spent a day away from her children.  We were trained to jump up and ‘look busy’ whenever a parent or grandparent walked into the room; heaven forbid someone find you relaxing, for they would certainly find a task for you to complete. 

And while that environment has instilled in me an admirable work ethic, it has totally destroyed my relationship with rest. 

I cannot rest in a dirty house.  

I cannot nap in the middle of the day. 

I cannot sleep past 8am. 

I cannot rest when my husband is working. 

I cannot sit while someone else makes a meal. 

I cannot ‘just’ watch television.  I need to be simultaneously making a list, or crocheting a blanket, or grading some papers. 

I cannot be in the house when my cleaners are here… unless I am cleaning something bigger or dirtier (like my garage). Even admitting that I have cleaners carries a layer of internalized shame; what kind of person can’t even keep her own bathroom clean? 

I could dig into the complex roots of all this.  Generation.  Gender.  Anxiety.  But regardless of the source, it is my job to un-learn the things that keep me in a constant state of feeling like I’m not doing enough. 

*****

I spent my children’s childhood trying to achieve balance.  I was told I could do it.  I scheduled playdates and game nights and camping trips.  I worked.  I cooked.  I cleaned.  I played.  I slept… fitfully. 

But maybe that’s the GenX curse; to think that I have to achieve something as important as balance.  

Maybe it’s not achievable.  In the same way that I can’t achieve a thunderstorm or a sunny day, I can’t work hard enough to achieve balance.  I can observe it.  I can appreciate it.  I can look for it.  I can even invite it.  But I can’t achieve it.  

Maybe that’s the lesson I’m supposed to learn today.  

*****

I’m sitting near my big, bay windows, sipping coffee and admiring the fire in the fireplace.  From my seat near the window, I can see the undersides of the leaves as the wind whips through the trees.

A memory; my big, burly dad squatting down next to me, pointing out the window.  I had asked, “How do you always know when a storm is coming?”  “Look at the leaves,” he said.  “If you can see the bottoms of the leaves, a storm is on its way.”  The rain is falling gently and the sky is gray.

I’m waiting for the storm. I can feel it coming.  

*****

I may have walked away from my church, but I haven’t walked away from my God.  I pray and I listen and I beg, and I am seeking always, just to hear her voice.  

On my bedroom wall hangs a painted quote.  “Be still and know…”

Psalm 46:10.  Be still and know that I am God.

I only hear her when I’m still. 

*****

What if that’s the whole point?  What if this phase is the balance I need?  I couldn’t achieve it.  I couldn’t create it.  I just need to accept it and be grateful for it.  I need to trust and have faith and stop trying to control things that are beyond my control. 

I need to make space.  To rest. To listen.  Be still…

*****

The rain is heavier now.  The leaves are showing their bottoms.  

I exhale.  I pray.  For my family.  For my church.  For my community, my country, the state of the world.  Inhale.  

A storm is coming.  

I will be rested and ready. 

Thanks be to God. 

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Debate

Charlie Kirk’s murder has been all over my news feed.  To be honest, I hadn’t even heard of the guy until this week, so I had to do a little research.  Jack had heard of him, but didn’t know much more than his political affiliation.  On Friday night, we were sharing what we had learned.  It was an intense conversation, held in the kitchen as I cooked.  

It’s taken us nearly two decades to figure out how to have heated discussions in a civilized way, but we’ve gotten much better over time.  We agree on a lot of things, but he leans a little right, and I lean a little left.  Early on in our relationship, our discussions often devolved into arguments or full-on fights.  

I’m proud of how far we’ve come, and when we share, we get to see first hand how the algorithm points each of us toward the news stories that reaffirm our beliefs.  Luckily, we have each other to challenge those beliefs, and it’s helped us both to grow and learn.  

And as we were talking, our kids emerged from their bedrooms to join the discussion.  Kyle shared a quote and then verified it online within 15 seconds.  Cameron made an argument and was able to back it up with real-life examples.  It was a pivotal moment for me. 

Usually, when Jack and I have these heated discussions, we keep out of earshot of the children.  Perhaps it’s because of the way they used to deteriorate into near-violence.  Or maybe it’s just because the content was usually age inappropriate.  But that’s not the case anymore.  These kids are grown or practically grown.  They have their own perspectives and opinions, and I fell asleep thinking that maybe we’ve done them a disservice by excluding them from the difficult conversations.  

So, in the wee hours of the morning, with my brain spinning, I hatched up a half-baked plan.  I (generously) waited until Jack began stirring at 5am before I accosted him with my brilliant idea.  “Family debate night!” I whisper-shouted into his face with a smile.  “Except we need to bribe them with food.  We’ll call it Dips and Debate, because I like alliteration and everyone likes dippy food.”  

“Dippy food?”  Jack asked, barely awake.  

“You know, like snacky, football-game food.  Wings.  Dipped in blue cheese.  Potato skins.  Dipped in sour cream.  Crab Rangoons.  Dipped in duck sauce.”  

I paused to take a breath.  I couldn’t tell if he was buying into it or not.  

“I think it’s a good idea. But… do we need to do the dips?  Can’t we just order Chinese?”

And just like that, the first family debate night was born.  

*****

I proposed the idea on Saturday morning. I mean, they’re teens, so a monotone, ‘Sure,’ is about as much enthusiasm as any family-centered event can elicit from them. But nobody pushed back.  Nobody even rolled their eyes.  I suggested they be prepared to screen cast their social media accounts, so they can share what they’re seeing.  I took their orders for take-out.  By dinnertime, everyone was willing (if not exactly eager) to share their perspectives and hear each other out.  

The conversation started as a condemnation of violence, then naturally veered into gun laws and constitutional rights and school shootings.  We talked about racism and income disparity and government overreach.  We talked about solutions and the cost of those solutions and lessons from history.  They researched as we talked.  They shared videos and articles and opinions and suggestions.  These kids… well, they’re not kids anymore.  They are articulate, thoughtful, perceptive, passionate, and compassionate young adults.  They blew me away.   

I learned so much last night.  About my kids.  About their world and how they see it. About the importance of talking about the tough stuff.  

Tonight at dinner, I asked them to rate our first family debate night. Was it unsuccessful, moderately successful, or successful?

They both said, “moderately successful,” which is practically a standing ovation, right?  

So we’re doing it again. 

But next time, we’re doing it with dips.  

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Big Feelings

This week has been full of big feelings. 

We had to put down our 14 year old black lab, CeCe. So many of you know how awful that is… for me it was a first.  I haven’t ever had to make such an awful, hard, right decision.  And it was the right thing to do.  But that doesn’t make it any easier.  

She was such a gentle giant.  She had a fierce bark, but not a mean bone in her body. She adored us all, and loved nothing more than to slowly, stealthily inch her massive body into the laps of those that she loved.  She was so tall that she didn’t have to jump onto a couch or a bed; she simply stepped up.  When she was younger, she would step up, under the blankets, into our bed at night and army crawl her way right in between Jack and I, as if we may not notice.  

She grew up with my children. Looking back through photos of our beloved pet, I was also reminded of how young they once were.  That smiling little boy showing off his legos with the dog at his feet is now a gentle giant himself, towering over both of his parents and nearly grown into the man he will become.  That dog has been by Kyle’s side through all of his transitions, and watching him care for her with such gentle compassion in her last days made my heart sing with pride.  

We knew it was time, but we were trying to ‘do it right.’  We didn’t want to do it on Jack’s birthday.  We all wanted to be there.  So we decided that we would bring her to the vet together on Saturday, August 9th.  

The morning of August 8th, Jack woke up first and came to get me.  “I don’t know if we can wait until tomorrow,” he whispered.  My rock, this man who personifies strength, had tears in his eyes and we decided to wake the kids. Nobody argued.  Everybody cried.  And one by one, each of these men called in sick to work so they could be by CeCe’s side in her last moments. 

Kyle lovingly made paw prints, and we buried her in the backyard.  

And three hours later, we were all dressed up and headed to the opening night of Footloose to watch Cam shine as Reverend Shaw Moore.  And boy did he shine.  That kid has a presence on stage and a voice that can speak to your soul.  I know I’m biased, because he’s my kid, but watching him on stage gives me goosebumps every time.

And this one gave us a glimpse of some acting chops we haven’t really seen before.  Especially in kids’ plays, there are a lot of one-dimensional characters.  He was Jafar in Aladdin; Tamatoa the crab in Moana; the Dentist in Little Shop of Horrors, and Kristoff in Frozen.  He did a great job with all of them. But this time, he got to be a character who evolved.  He played angry, and vulnerable, and heartbroken, and hopeful.  He literally brought the audience to tears.  It was SO good.  I was SO happy for him.  

But when we walked back into the house, full of pride and joy, our girl wasn’t there to greet us, and the sadness came again.  

I wanted so badly to separate the grief and the joy.  I wanted to take some time to mourn.  I wanted to carve out some time to have my feelings and then move on.  

But that’s not how any of this works.  It’s not how LIFE works.  We can’t compartmentalize everything into neat boxes and label them with joy or grief or pride or heartbreak. We can’t pause the feelings.  They just keep coming in overlapping waves.  We don’t get to decide.  We can’t impose a timeline because there is no way to neaten up the messiness of being human.  

This afternoon, we have family coming over to celebrate Jack’s birthday.  I already know there will be laughter and joy and celebration.  But I also know there will be sadness that comes in waves.  Being human is a crazy knot of tangled up emotions.

Today, I’m not going to try to sort them or shut them down. I’m going to be with my people; and together, we’re going to love each other through it while we feel each and every one of those big feelings.

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Day Five

Today is my fifth day alone.  

So far, I have done a lot of walking, cleaning, and cooking.  There’s a blueberry pie in the oven as I write this, and I’m averaging 12 thousand steps a day.  My sheets and my windows are clean, and the painting begins tomorrow.  My stepdad and I bought the supplies and did the planning, so I can’t back out.  I’ve read three books and finished my first diamond art project.  I’ve gotten together with friends twice; once for a walk and once for lunch… both in the sunshine.  I’m taking an online class about AI and I’ve scheduled the doctor, the dentist, and the dermatologist.  Today I’ll get my nails done and meet with a financial advisor and go to the grocery store again. 

It feels like a pretty good balance.  35 year old me would be insanely jealous. But 25 year old me lived a lot like this, even during the school year. 

*****

When I was 22, I moved to Boston.  All by my lonesome.  I mistakenly thought I was a city girl trapped in the country, and I wanted desperately to build something of my own, far from home. 

At the time, I was undecided.  It would be Boston or San Francisco.  I was young and my optimism was fearless.  When I decided on Boston, I literally took a physical map and drew a circle in a 20 mile radius around the city.  I looked up a bunch of cities and towns and applied to schools, knowing absolutely nothing about the area.  

Through a series of beautiful coincidences… and a healthy dose of divine intervention… I found myself in a one-bedroom first floor apartment about half a mile from the school where I taught.  I had a second job waitressing and a third job teaching English to adults.  

I was certainly busy. I made (terrible) curtains myself using a hand-me down sewing machine.  I hosted parties.  A lot of parties.  I baked and I cooked and I read.  I rode my motorcycle and I made an entire scrapbook of my kitten (my kids are jealous). 

But what I remember most about that time was the feeling of freedom.  I have vivid memories of sitting on the tiny front porch with a book and a cup of coffee, waiting for my freshly painted toenails to dry, trying to decide what to do with my day. 

I remember cooking dinner based on nothing but my own personal cravings.  I remember whole days of reading, with only occasional snack breaks. I remember taking myself to the museum, taking myself to the library, taking myself to lunch. 

It’s easy to romanticize it, looking back.  For about three years of my life, I only had myself to take care of. I’m so glad I had that time.  

But in reality, it was lonely.  I eventually got a roommate to help with the rent.  But truth be told, I needed companionship as much as I needed rent money.  Twenty five years later, I am blessed to be able to still count her among my closest friends.  

*****

This summer, I feel a lot of those same freedoms.  I can sip my coffee in the sunshine and decide what to do with my day.  I can take myself out or choose to stay in.  I can read all day, or I can tackle a project.  It’s an incredible freedom.  

But this time, it’s freedom without the loneliness.  At the end of the day, I will again be surrounded by people I love.  I will be able to bask in this beautiful family we’ve created.  And THAT is the biggest blessing of all.  

My family will filter through the front door, one at a time.  They will have stories to share about crazy clients and terrible traffic and they will inevitably ask, “What’s for dinner?”

I haven’t figured that one out for today.  But at least there’s blueberry pie for dessert. 

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Alone

Moms don’t get a lot of alone time.  Neither do teachers.  Consequently, we cherish those fleeting moments when nobody needs us. 

Today, the strangest thing happened.  My whole family woke up in the morning, got in their respective vehicles, and drove off to work.  I was still in my pajamas, sipping coffee.  

What is happening?  Is this my life?

The craziest part is that this will also happen tomorrow.  And next week.  And the week after that.  

I’m not even sure I can publish this blog post.  I feel so… spoiled.  Indulgent.  Privileged.  

Irrelevant.  

God.  What the heck is that? I’m having a lot of feelings about this particular transition.  Of course I’m excited.  

But excitement feels like the right emotion for a day or two of this type of freedom. I’m not talking about a day or two.  I’m talking about… from now on. From now on, nobody needs me to drive them to school or practice.  From now on, they can finance their own doordash habits and make their own plans with their friends.  

I was already mourning our summertime trips to the zoo and the children’s museum.  I understood that those were clearly a thing of the past. The oldest is working full time.  But I didn’t think the youngest was going to find a job this summer.  He hasn’t had much luck in his search.  And if he did get a job, I figured it would be maybe ten hours a week.  I thought we still had this one last summer for day trips and beach visits and spontaneous sushi lunches. 

And then he got lucky.  He landed a job.  A good one.  Practically full-time.  Monday through Friday, 8am to 2pm.  He’s really excited.  And I’m really happy for him.  But it happened fast.  I didn’t have time to think it through. 

I thought about the details.  Getting his work permit signed.  Setting up his bank account for direct deposit.  Making sure he had the right clothes and his ID badge and the pep talk about first impressions and working hard and building your reputation. 

But this morning, he drove away, with his lunch box and a smile.  And I hadn’t really thought about what comes next.  

The summer I imagined is gone.  I’m not going to have any spontaneous sushi lunches with my kid.  I’m not going to get to bring him and his friends to the beach on a random Wednesday.  I’m not going to get to drag him to an obscure museum because we’re both a little bored.  

That makes me sad.  Like, really sad.  Sadder than I expected.  

My husband just called, expecting me to be joyful.  I could hear the smile in his voice when he asked, “How’s your day all by yourself?”  

I sobbed into the phone.  “I didn’t expect to be sad, but I’m (sob) so (sob)…. saaaaad.” 

“Seriously?” He asked.  “I thought I was calling for good news.  I thought you’d be thrilled.”

I also thought I’d be thrilled.  This sadness snuck up on me. 

*****

Fast forward six hours.  I’m done crying, and it’s actually been a pretty good day.  I read a little, ran some errands, did some chores… I went to the library and checked a couple of items off my to-do list.  I talked to my sister, texted a friend, and cuddled my dog.  I made plans for a walk with a friend tomorrow, and I’m feeling a little more like myself.

It’s an odd feeling, but I think that’s my mission at this phase in my life.  To feel more and more like myself.  I’ll always be a mom… but I’m defined by it less and less as they get older.  I have to remember what ELSE I am.  I’m a reader.  A biker.  A friend.  A sister.  A writer.  A cook. A camper.  A protester.  And I can be new things, too. A friend and I want to take a pottery class.   I could be a thrower (I had to google “What do you call someone who uses a pottery wheel”).   Another friend offered to teach me pickleball.  I just found a new podcast and I’m really loving my daily walks and crocheting beautiful things. 

*****

My friends with little kids are jealous of this time I have to myself.  My friends with older kids will say, “At least they’re still at home with you.”  Every phase brings joys and challenges.  I could miss what was and be sad.  I could worry about what it will feel like when they’re gone.  Or I could just be HERE.  In these six sweet weeks of summer that will be unlike any other.  Enjoying them when they’re around… and finding myself when they’re not.  

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Another Summer

I’ve been on summer vacation for two weeks, but I still can’t sleep past 6am.  I try to make myself stay in bed until 6:30; in my brain, that’s a more reasonable time to be awake.  It happens every year.  By August, I’ll be able to sleep in until 9 on occasion- just in time to go back to a 5am alarm.  I know, I know.  What a problem.  My husband has no sympathy.  His alarm goes off at 4am year round.  

I’m 46 years old.  I started school at 5 years old, right?  So technically, this is my 41st summer vacation.  Holy cow.  

Why does summer vacation still surprise me, then?  Why am I always unprepared for it?  

I’ve been seeing a bunch of reels about teachers on summer vacation; usually they’re funny or cute, but sometimes they try to capture the surreal, shocking shift of it.  That helps me to see that I’m not alone, at least. 

While I’m never emotionally prepared for summer, I’ve been doing it long enough to know that there are predictable phases.  The problem is that I bounce between them like a ping-pong ball.  I never know what phase I’ll be in until I’m in it.  

Teachers will tell you that the end of the year is the hardest part of teaching.  Behaviors are amped up, paperwork is endless, we’re frantically trying to get through the curriculum and grade all the things.  We have to pack up our classrooms and take everything off the walls at the same time we’re giving finals and calling parents and writing final reports.  It is a frantic push to the last day.  

And then it just… stops.  

It’s so abrupt.  

*****

The next day, you wake up in the morning, and you’ll get one of these: 

Relief.  You’re at peace.  The whole day is ahead of you.  You can sip your coffee and sit on your deck and listen to the birds.  You don’t need a plan.  You can take the day as it comes, and everything about it feels beautiful. 

Recovery.  You’re traumatized from the weight of the last few weeks, and it catches up with you.  You can’t leave your couch, and you binge watch a full series on Netflix.  Dinner is takeout because you’re too tired from being tired. 

Motivation. You have ALL SUMMER.  You’re going to eat healthy, exercise, and lose 30 pounds.  You’re going to paint all the trim and clean out the garage and organize the closets.  You’re going to landscape the backyard and stain the deck and start a garden and finally write that memoir.

Guilt. Your spouse or your roommate or your parents or your kids are out there WORKING.  They get up every morning and bust their butts.  And you feel bad, so you become the household manager.  You take over responsibilities that are shared during the school year.  Pick up the prescriptions, make the meals, mow the lawn.  You take it all on because, after all, you’re not working.  

Work.  You promised yourself you wouldn’t check your email this week.  But the incredible, hard working secretary at school just needed one more piece of information.  So you pull up the IEPs on your computer and you create a spreadsheet, and you try not to look at the rest of your inbox. 

Leisure.  You schedule a pedicure.  You meet a friend for lunch.  You order a cocktail at noon and you chat for two hours because you’re both teachers and you have nowhere to be. You sit in the park with your book because sunshine feels nice. 

More work.  There is that new curriculum for next year.  You just need to preview the first unit.  And if you plan the first week, the transition will be smoother.  And just one online class.  It’s fine.  You’re not working.  I mean… not really. 

Panic. Where has the time gone?  You haven’t done half of your projects.  Did you even PLAN a vacation?  You were supposed to do all those day trips.  You were supposed to visit family.  You were supposed to paint the trim.  

Frantic Fun.  You look at the days that are left.  You fill the calendar with beach days, amusement parks, and road trips.  You should know yourself better than to think those things could have been spontaneous. WE ARE GOING TO HAVE FUN THIS SUMMER IF IT KILLS US! 

Satisfaction.  You had a good day.  You did something fun.  You moved your body.  You accomplished a task.  You talked to a friend.  What more can you ask for? 

*****

Each day is a surprise.  For me, Monday was already frantic fun.  We were at Six Flags, which is only enjoyable in theory or with a good friend.  Thankfully, I was there with my bestie and her kids.  Yesterday, I was in guilt mode.  When my husband got home from work, I proudly presented him with a list of all I had accomplished, and he looked at me like I was insane.  I’m hoping today is something a little less frenetic, but I’ve been awake for an hour and a half, and I’m still not sure where the day is going to go.  

Over my 41 summer vacations, I have learned one lesson.  I will ALWAYS get to the end of it and wonder where the time went. Over the past decade, the method has evolved, but I know I need to document the summer.  I’ve kept a calendar so we could look back on all we did.  I’ve kept a photo journal, so I can see all of the memories together.  I’ve kept an actual journal, so I can reflect and revisit.  But it is essential for me to keep a record.  When the summer ends, instead of feeling regret or sadness or disappointment, I take a moment and look back.  

As I flip through the journal or scroll through the photos, I cannot help but feel blessed. Camping trips and herb gardens.  Boating and grilling and painting.  Learning and working and sweating and swimming. Forty-one beautiful summers. 

How did I get so lucky? 

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Mom

Mom is recovering.  It’s been two weeks since the surgery, and she’s doing really great.  She’s been really active.  The chemo exhausted her, and now that it’s over, she’s regaining her stamina.  My sister was here and they went out to eat and did some shopping.  The three of us even went for a short walk near the reservoir in town.  Now that school is out for me, we’ve been able to go thrifting and plant flowers and play games; today she’s coming with me to an awards ceremony at Cam’s school. 

But yesterday, I left her home all day; her only company was an antisocial young adult who likely spent most of the day in his basement bedroom.  I’m glad he was here in case she needed help, but I’m sure he didn’t provide her with any company or entertainment.  

The rest of us were at an all-day rugby tournament.  We were anticipating temperatures in the 90s and we knew from experience that we’d be out of the house for 10-12 hours. The tournament was out of state, nearly two hours away, so bringing mom for part of the day wasn’t a feasible option. We decided that it would be best for her to stay home. 

I feel badly because, in hindsight, I think we made the wrong choice.  The tournament was oceanside in Newport, Rhode Island.  The scenery was gorgeous, and a continuous ocean breeze made the temperature just perfect.  We sat in the shade of our canopy, cheering on our team, eating sandwiches, and chatting with other families.  In between games, I walked down to the water and put my feet in the ocean, or strolled down near the pier and watched the sailboats go by.  It was an absolutely beautiful day.  On the way home, we stopped for dinner at a pub we like, and it was great not to have to worry about cooking or cleanup.  

What I did worry about was Mom.  She mostly watched YouTube all day.  She watered the plants and put in a load of laundry (which she isn’t supposed to be doing).  She says she was fine, but it doesn’t help me feel less guilty about having such a lovely day while she was home watching TV. 

That’s actually been one of the hardest parts about having her here.  She doesn’t need much physical care, and she tries hard to be helpful.  She does the dishes and cooks and takes care of the dogs… but we all go off to work and school each morning, so she’s spent most of her days alone with our aging black lab.  They’re best buddies now, but I imagine they’re both a bit bored most of the time. 

When Mom came to stay with us, I was worried about a bunch of potential conflicts.  I was afraid that she’d judge my parenting and offer unsolicited advice.  I was afraid that she’d be too sick or weak to use the stairs and we’d have to set up a hospital bed in the living room.  I was afraid that she’d need more care than I could provide while working full time.  I was afraid I might have to take a leave from my job.  I was afraid she wouldn’t respond to treatment and the cancer would get worse.  

Thank God, all of those worries were unfounded.  I’m so grateful for that.  

What’s been hardest is being her only friend here.  What’s been hardest is balancing a full-time teaching job and full-time parenting and volunteer work against also being Mom’s best source of entertainment.  She hasn’t been driving.  So if she wants to go somewhere, I have to bring her.  If she wants to play a game, it’s usually with me.  If she wants to plant herbs or go for a walk or go out for ice cream, that becomes my agenda.  She tries not to be needy, but I feel guilt every time I tell her I can’t.  

Sometimes, even her helping adds to my to-do list.  I have a tendency to let the recycling pile up in the corner of the dining room until I have the energy or the motivation or the time to take care of it.  Mom will sort it and bag it up, but she can’t bring it outside to where it belongs. She leaves the bags for me to take care of, so the thing that I’ve purposely been putting off has to be done now, because she’s started it and she needs me to finish it.  

All that to say that having Mom here has been hard in a different way than I anticipated.  The beginning of my summer vacation has definitely helped.  I have more time to give her, and I can focus a little more on fun things instead of the daily grind.  Soon, she’ll move into an AirBnb with her husband and her dogs.  They’ll have their own space while she’s getting daily radiation treatment. I’m looking forward to being able to meet up with her for lunch, or get together for a game of scrabble, or take a drive to Newport for a visit that doesn’t involve 8 hours of rugby.  

Every once in a while, Mom gets teary.  She’ll hug me and say, “Thank you for saving my life.”  It feels extreme, but in the same breath, we brought her here for world-class medical treatment.  And it worked.  She’s got a new lease on life, and she’s thrilled to be on the mend.  She’s so excited to have her hair growing back, and her energy rebounding.  She’s thrilled to be with her husband and her dogs in her own space.  She’s thrilled to explore New England this summer, and I’m looking forward to doing it with her.