Month: February 2024

It is a seismic jolt when kids fly the coop. I know from experience that it’s sad. And may I say it is sadder when girls leave home than boys, because by age 18 boys have so much testosterone coursing through their bodies that it is simply time for them to go.

“We love you, but go. Just Go. Take your truck and your drums with you. We’ll call. Our people will be in touch with your people.”

If your children are leaving the nest and you are struggling to adjust, you can now hire an empty-nest life coach. There was no such thing when our kids left home; there was only chocolate. An empty-nest life coach may charge $250 an hour to help parents work through this next stage of life, but why let that stop you?

One empty-nester I read about paid an empty-nest life coach $2,000 a week for 12 weeks of coaching—otherwise known as $24,000.

I am not judging. Not at all. The truth is, I am here to help. I remember the shock of it all, which is why I am offering my four-step plan for coping with the empty nest.

Step 1: Cry. When you set the table for dinner and set one too many placemats—just cry. Let it out. When you go into that empty bedroom—cry.

When you open the closet door in that empty bedroom and old sports equipment tumbles out, when you see all the clothes hanging out of dresser drawers and all the junk stuffed under the bed, cry some more—because you will be the one bringing order to chaos.

Step 2: Get real. Your kid left home. Do you know how many parents would love to be in your shoes? In today’s world, kids leaving home is growing increasingly uncommon. If your kid flew the nest, do a little victory dance. You can go back to crying later.

Step 3: Figure it out. That’s what your kid is doing—figuring out this next season of life. Embrace it and make it work. Get a date on the calendar when you’ll be together again. Have something on the horizon to look forward to, then get busy, stay busy and keep putting one foot in front of the other. Left, right, left, right.

Step 4: Start cooking. Why? Because your kid is not gone forever; your kid will be back. And when your kid does come back, the kid will eat you out of house and home. You will be all misty-eyed waiting at the door, the kid will arrive, blow right past you, race to the kitchen, fling open the door to the ‘fridge and yell, “Is there anything good to eat?”

Know this: Your kid loves you, but the two primary reasons kids come home are to do laundry and to eat. Keep laundry detergent well stocked, the lint trap to the dryer clean and start cooking.

There you have it: Cry, get real, figure it out, start cooking.

You’ve got this.

That will be $1,000, please.

The doorbell rings, I open the door and nobody is there. As scripted, I exclaim in surprise that the doorbell rang but nobody is here.

On cue, a 5-year-old in a puffy pink coat barrels around from the side of the porch squealing with laughter. She runs into the house, throws her coat toward the hall tree (but not exactly on it) and races to the front room carrying a stuffed white puppy dog in one arm and dragging a tote bag filled with books with the other arm.

She will be hanging out with us for a few hours today and has brought some early-reader books to read to Grandma.

She climbs onto the loveseat with the faded yellow floral print, courtesy of 20 years of sunshine streaming through the windows, and pulls out “Biscuit and the Great Fall Day.” Biscuit is a yellow puppy featured in simple-sentence adventures for early readers.

“Biscuit and the Great Fall Day,” she softly says, giving me ample time to study the cover.

“Can’t wait!” I say. But I must wait.

She slowly turns to page one, filled with fall pictures, which she gives me time to absorb; then slowly turns to page two, also filled with fall pictures, also giving me more time to absorb. Page three is blank, yet we pause and absorb. This is followed by the title page, then another picture page (is it time for lunch?) and finally the story begins.

“It is a great fall day, Biscuit,” she reads. “Woof, woof!”

She is not using her finger to follow the words, simply pausing, thinking and giving the synapses time to fire. She hesitates before “great.” That “g” with the tail hanging down is a memory prompt for the word “good,” a word more familiar to her.

“Great” is a set-up; it has two vowels side by side. It’s the old, “The first one does the walking and the second one does the talking.” This is a curve ball to our young batter. She holds the “g” in her throat, starts to unleash “goo-“ then abruptly skirts the “d” sound, slides into the “r” sound and finishes off with “great.”

She hits the ball out of the park!

Because reading is more inviting when it is enjoyable, I coach her on Biscuit’s dialog. “Read it with feeling,” I tell her. “Make it sound like a dog would say it—like your dog would say it.”

“Woof!” She emits a guttural woof, sounding like a two-pack-a-day smoker.

The next “woof” comes from deep in her throat and catches a gargling quality.

At the next “woof,” she pauses, squints her eyes ever so slightly, straightens her spine and finds a comfortable and convincing, “woof,” which is good—I mean great— because “woof” is the entirety of Biscuit’s vocabulary.

The next day on the phone with her mother, I mention that I taught her little one to read with color in her voice, whereupon you-know-who “woofs” in the background.

Our daughter, who taught early elementary, deadpanned, “They don’t teach that in school, Mother.”

Of course they don’t, which is why little ones should come to Grandma’s house.

 

We’ve had a lot of home repairs lately. Our house is a lot like we are, slowly aging and in need of occasional patchwork.

We are grateful that we are not aging alone, that we are accompanied on this journey by our unpredictable furnace, faltering air conditioner and 60-year-old pipes with lime and calcium buildup.

What’s ironic is that the service companies always want us to buy a “membership” that guarantees a service call without the gigantic service call fee for 12 months — all of which sounds remarkably like our Medicare Advantage plan.

In any case, we needed a plumber to rip out plumbing in a bathtub not long ago, and before he arrived I received a text saying, “Your technician is on the way. Mason is married, has two kids and enjoys the outdoors and hunting.”

That was nice they told us a bit about the plumber, but then I wondered if they sent the info so we could vet him. You know, make sure he was legit and not some unscrupulous imposter working his way into the house to see if we had any old VHS tapes or landline phones he could steal and sell online.

I contemplated how I could chit-chat with Mason, or whoever he was, to verify his identity. When a plumber comes to the door, puts on the paper footies and walks in, do you hit him with: “How is the wife? School going well for the kids? Did you get a deer this fall? What is your favorite state park?”

I can, will, and often do, talk to just about anybody, but even for me this seemed invasive.

But wait—would Mason expect personal info from me to verify my identity?

Did I need to go into my marital status?

If I started talking about our family—the kids, their spouses, all 11 immensely talented grandkids—Mason could be here for dinner. “We’re out of venison, but do you like smothered pork chops, Mason?”

It dawned on me that I wasn’t just getting a contractor, I was getting a relationship. I didn’t want a relationship. I wanted a plumber. One who would be quick, neat and know what he was doing.

Turns out Mason was just that. I was glad I had not probed the personal information the company sent in advance. Although, when he left I did yell out, “Give our best to the wife and kids, Mason!”

We will ask for him by name next time.

Let’s do this the easy way: Raise your hand if you haven’t had the crud this winter. You know, the coughing, hacking, sore throat, sudden onset of fatigue, runny nose, stuffy nose.

Everybody we know is in one of three groups: they are either currently sick, have recently been sick or are waiting to get sick.

Some people mix and match, others order a la carte – there’s something for everyone.

Some of the grands’ new pastime is getting tested for strep. They swap names of antibiotics like kids once swapped baseball cards.

One of their pediatricians said there used to be a wave of colds every September after school started, but now it is wave after wave after wave.

Welcome to the post-COVID new normal.

To mix things up, one wing of the family recently passed a stomach bug around. A 6-year-old said that her 8-year-old sister, who couldn’t hold anything down for two days, was “like a waterfall—it kept coming and coming!”

Soon after the stomach bug passed through, they all came down with colds. A new day, a new virus.

It’s been ages since the lot of us all tried to get together. We make plans, contingency plans, and contingency plans for our contingency plans. Then someone announces that someone picked up something and everyone freezes in place because nobody wants a third, fourth or twenty-fifth round of this stuff.

I am not sick and have not been sick, which puts me in the third group – waiting to get sick. It’s coming. I know it’s coming; I just don’t know when it’s coming.

“I was coughing last night,” I tell my husband. “Did you hear me coughing? I think I’m getting it.”

“You weren’t coughing.”

“Then I must have dreamed I was coughing and maybe the dream was a premonition.”

“You’re not coughing now.”

“Maybe not, but feel my head. Do I feel warm?”

“You just got home from the gym.”

“I think I should lie down on the sofa to be safe. I don’t feel sick, but I could be on the verge of being sick, so maybe I should take it easy for a while—you know, an ounce of prevention and all that.

“Say, how are we on Popsicles? Ice cream can be soothing, too. Could you make some homemade chicken noodle soup? I can tell you where the recipe is and step you through it.”

No response. I bet his throat is sore and he can’t talk.

My plan is to stay proactive, eat oranges and spinach salads, down vitamins, remember not to lick my fingers when attempting to open the plastic produce bags at the grocery and drink lots and lots of water.

I drink so much water that my Fitbit registered 2,000 steps last night from all my trips to the bathroom.

I may not sleep much, but at least I’m not sick—although I am feeling really, really t . . . i . . . r . . . e . .  .