A Year of French Toast

When my youngest daughter was in her last year of elementary school, our town instituted a mandatory  bus fee for anyone who lived less than 2 miles from school.   Our elementary school was less than a 1/4 mile away from our house but my kids had always taken the bus because the street had no sidewalk and was just too busy to walk down.   However, there was no way we were going to pay $200 for our youngest daughter to travel 1/4 mile to school.   Luckily, a neighbor offered us the option of using her backyard as a cut through to the school and with that possibility we were able to become "walkers".    That also meant that our mornings weren't as rushed because there was no bus to catch.   My older daughter had to catch the middle school bus over an hour earlier than we even had to leave.   So the two of us, my younger daughter and I, had a good chunk of morning all to ourselves.   As soon as my older daughter got on the bus, I would climb into my younger daughter's bed to snuggle and gently wake her up.   I would ask her what she wanted for breakfast and every single morning her answer was "French Toast".

I had watched my older daughter change before my eyes when she went to middle school.   She was quickly shedding her "little girl" skin and the way she acted, dressed, and spoke had changed quite dramatically.    I could see the future and I wasn't quite ready for all that to happen to my youngest, my baby.   So, I cuddled her a little longer and I happily made her French Toast every morning.    I would go downstairs to cook breakfast while she got herself dressed.   Ever the fashion queen, I was always curious what she would come down in.   She would eventually appear in some sort of pink, purple, striped, polka-dotted, crazy ensemble and a big, proud smile on her face.   She would sit down at the table and our puppy would curl up at her feet.   She would dig into her French Toast and we would chat about her day.   She would tell me about her friends, what she wanted to do at recess, and she would regale me with hilarious stories about her classmates and her teachers.    I think, because I knew what was coming down the pike, I really appreciated these mornings and I was fully present at these breakfasts.   I drank in her smile, her giggle, and all her little girl-ness.   At a certain point, my neighbor/friend would stop by with her little boy and we would join them for the short walk to school.  The kids would chat, skip, play and if there were puddles, they would splash in them.   And, when we arrived at the school's front door, we would watch them run ahead and disappear.    We did the same thing, every single day, for just that one year.  It was lovely.

The next year she was off to middle school, back on a bus, and she had to leave the house much earlier and there never seemed to be time for a relaxed, home made breakfast.    So she started eating cereal and frozen waffles, if anything at all.

As the years passed life just became busier and busier.   When she went to high school, she had to get there even earlier.   There were days when life just seems so crazy, so busy and so thoroughly unenjoyable that one of us would say wistfully, "Remember the year of French Toast"?

Tomorrow this same girl will start her senior year of high school.   Her sister is a sophomore in college and I have seen the future.   I am well aware of what is down the pike.   The high school is four miles away and this year, for the first time, she will be driving herself.   There will be no bus, and no walking.    She has to get up quite early, and leave the house before 7 am.   I don't think there will be any time or inclination for French Toast, and even cereal and frozen waffles are a stretch.

Any parent who has gone through a senior year of high school with their child knows that the year can be a stressful one.    There are so many things to do, and oh so many deadlines.   Sometimes it's enough to make your head spin, and it can be a year of much parent-child tension as important deadlines loom.  It is a very different year than the last year of elementary school because it is a year of major, life changing decisions.

My daughter will roll her eyes when she overhears me telling people that I'm not looking forward to this year.  "Senior Year is so tough" I'll say.   Then when we are alone she'll ask/yell at me, "Why do you say that?  It's not going to be hard for you!!!!  You are not the one taking standardized tests, filling in applications, and trying to keep your grades up at the same time!!!"   I know she is right.  I know this is all on her.  But, she is also wrong.

This year will be hard for me in ways she simply cannot understand.

This morning I took her back-to-school shopping for notebooks, binders, pens, pencils, etc.   At one point, she turned to me smiling and said, "Hey!  This is the last time we will do this together!"  Yup.  Gulp!  And I had actually been feeling lucky, now that she has her driver's license, that I had the honor of being there at all this year.  Of course, she was happy to have my wallet there.   I watched her as she chose her school supplies with such care and decisiveness.   All her folders and notebooks are properly color coded, in a way that would only make sense to her.   I see other mothers, with younger children, frantically looking around with school-issued supply lists in their hands.   One frenzied mother asked me, with a crazed look in her eyes, "What if I don't send him with a red folder like the teacher requested?  What will happen?!?!?"  I smile as I remember going toe to toe with a teacher on this very subject.   "It won't be the end of the world,"  I tell her, knowing that she will probably get a "this is unacceptable" note home in just a few days time.   But, I have given her a moment of peace. We have no such list.   My girl knows exactly what she needs.

On the way home we stop at a coffee shop, and she orders her "usual" with no hesitation.  She knows what she wants.   When we get home, we eat lunch together and make small talk about the upcoming year.   She runs ideas by me, but I know she already has her mind made up about what she is going to do, and isn't really asking my opinion, but is more making sure I don't object.   I listen to her talk and I drink in her smile, her giggle and am amazed at the confident, autonomous young woman she has become.

 After lunch she takes a nap on the couch with our dog, who hasn't been feeling well and takes great comfort in her presence.  Their deep breathing seems to be in sync as they dream their separate (but equal) dreams.  The two of them look so content.   Correction.  The three of us are so content.  Then, without warning, my daughter pops up and realizes that she has to be somewhere.  Right now.  And she is suddenly gone leaving nothing but a warm dent on the couch.  The dog and I look at each other wondering what just happened and where she went and then he moves himself to the warmth of where she used to be and goes back to sleep, seemingly content.    And me, I'm still kind of confused.   We were so cozy and content.   Why did she have to leave so quickly?  Why does she have to leave so quickly?

If I remember correctly, I did not go into the year of French Toast happily or willingly.   I did not want those years to end, but it was not up to me.   The year would have happened with, or without, the delicious breakfast treat, but it did make it ever so much more palatable! (Maple syrup makes anything better!)    Tomorrow my daughter will start her senior year of high school whether I like it or not.  Since the hour of departure is much too early for anyone to make, let alone eat French Toast, we will have to find something else to make the coming year easier to digest.   Whatever that may be, I am hoping it will be a year full of such sweet, syrupy goodness that it will stick with us in a way that lets us forget everything that it portends.

I Walk With These Women

It's a weekday morning on a mild winter day and I am walking my dog in a giant loop around the local cranberry bogs.   I am walking behind a group of women, who also happen to be walking their dogs.   I do not know these particular women.

My dog is playing with their dogs so even though I am not part of their group, I am nearby and can't help but overhear their conversation.   The women are all around the same age as I am, they come in different shapes and sizes and have varying shades of gray in their hair.   They are at ease with each other.   These women have known each other for a long time.   It is easy to see that.   The banter is quick, and conversation flows easily from one topic to the next.  There is no need for explanations.  These women have raised babies together, they have sat on soccer fields, in school auditoriums, and in each other's kitchens.   They know each other's spouses and they probably know things about those spouses that the spouses would rather they didn't know.    They know each other's children intimately.   They have changed their diapers, babysat, and carpooled for years.   They know which kid has ADD, which kid is on the spectrum, which kid is a genius, and which kid is not a genius but his mother would like to think he is.   They take care of each other's pets when they go on vacation and they keep an eye on things, all the time.

I walk with these women.

I do not know this group of women at all but if I had to guess, I would guess that at least one of them has a special needs child, at least one is taking care of an elderly parent, at least one is battling cancer, and at least one has lost a partner to disease or divorce.   Unfortunately, the odds are in the favor of some, if not all, of these things being true.  They are not talking about these things today.
They are talking about their teenagers that make them crazy and spouses that leave dirty socks on the floor.  They are talking about the new coffee place that isn't so good.   They are talking about whether or not they are going to run that 5K in the spring.   They are talking about their kids wisdom teeth.  They talk about college, admissions and cost.  They are talking about their dogs.

I walk with these women.

At the end of the walk they say quick, casual goodbyes.  They will see each other tomorrow after all.  There is no need for hugs or lingering goodbyes.   They hop in their cars and speed off in different directions, time to get the day going, whatever that means for each individual.

They might see or talk to each other over the course of the day in different capacities.   Maybe they'll carpool each other's kids or see each other at a concert.   They might help bring an aging mother to a doctor's appointment.  They might call each other and fret over an unexpected, unwanted call from the school.  They might talk each other through how to sign their kid up for SATs on-line.  They might share a gluten-free, sugar-free, taste-free recipe.   They might cry to each other over a kid that just won't /can't/didn't.  Maybe they will worry with each other over a frustrating health setback.  They might ask each other what to do with a kid who has anxiety/acne/heartbreak or a bad grade in math. They might even text each other in the wee hours of the night, wondering, with the aid of emojis, if they are just absolutely screwing everything up!!!!!!!!!!! (now who does that ;))

And tomorrow they will walk together again.
They will walk together every. damn. day.
I am sure of it.

After all,

I walk with these women.

A Different Kind of Goodbye

In August we dropped our oldest daughter off at college and it was extremely emotional for us.   We, as her parents, recognized what this meant for our family.   It was the beginning of a new stage for us, a stage where our child would not spend every night under our roof, where we would no longer be privy to the mundane details of her everyday life, and where she would eventually start calling another place, not our beloved house, "home".  We knew this.  She didn't.   We had the wisdom of time and experience.  She did not.

On move in day she was so excited to get started on this new adventure.   She shed no tears upon our departure.   She ran to her dorm with her orientation group.   She had new friends to make, new classes to take, and so many new clubs to join.   It was all so exciting.

She started the semester with all her pencils sharpened, her laptop charged, and her ridiculously expensive textbooks lining her bookshelf.   She was thrilled that she only had to take four classes, as opposed to the seven she had to take each semester in high school.   She was ecstatic that she would never, ever have to take math again.   She LOVED that she could eat whatever she wanted without the glaring eye of her mother judging her choice to have a cookie BEFORE she ate her dinner.  Everything was perfect.

Until it wasn't.

After a while she realized that the reason you only take four classes in college at a time, is because those four classes are much more challenging than any high school class.    Then there was the day she was so excited to have lentil soup for lunch in the cafeteria, only to find out that the school's watery version paled in comparison to mom's.   And, later there was the small health scare she had because she was eating such crappy food.    On top of all of this the roommate match was less than perfect and the laundry machines were not always readily available, or working.

All this being said, she still absolutely loved being at college, and all the opportunities it afforded her.  But, it wasn't all easy, and we weren't always there to help her solve little, or big, problems that came up.  For better or worse, this was her new normal.

Over the course of the first semester she came home a few times.   Usually, with the exception of Thanksgiving, not for more than a night or two.   It was never enough time to get back into the rhythm of our home.   She quickly realized that life had gone on, when during these visits her sister or us, her parents, would go out with other plans, leaving her to her own devices.

The winter break was a little different.   It was longer and gave her time to really tuck back into our family.    She really enjoyed eating home cooked meals, having her laundry done, and mostly, not having to share a room.    She was more helpful around the house than she had ever been.   She was always quick to empty a clean dishwasher,  she helped with the grocery shopping, and even did some cooking and baking.    It was like she suddenly realized in the few months that she had been gone, taking care of herself (to the degree that college students do), that there were no magic fairies that did the household chores.    Things had to get done, and people had to do them, and she might as well help.

When it came time to bring her back to school, she seemed ready to go back.  She was looking forward to a new semester of classes, seeing some friends, and going back to her activities.   I took her back "home" on a Tuesday.   There was nothing ceremonial about it.    It was just me and her and a trunk load of stuff.   We unpacked the car, and I helped her make her bed just like I did in August.   She didn't seem so anxious for me to leave this time.   Unfortunately, due to an appointment I had back home, I couldn't hang around for too long.   Our goodbye was not overly emotional, or teary.   It was just a quick hug and a "I'll text you later".   But it was so different than our goodbye in August.

I knew that she knew.   She knew everything she was leaving behind, and some of what was before her.   She had months ahead of taking care of herself, eating watery lentil soup, managing living with another person, and tackling her studies.   There would also be a lot of exciting adventures ahead, some known, others still a mystery.   It wasn't good or bad.  It was different.  It just was what it was.

There is something wonderful and heartbreaking about watching your child come to the realization that their life is, just that, their life.  In my last post I wrote about how all we wanted for our children was for them to fly.    I guess the first step is the simple realization that you have wings, and that they have the incredible and terrifying power to take you away from everything you've ever known.   Check.