Are You Still A Mom When Your Kids Are Far Away?

I’m not quite sure who first used the metaphor “nest” to refer to one’s home, but that wise soul was really spot on. We’d often come across nests poking out from under the eaves of our house. If we were lucky, we’d see the papa bird getting it ready for his lady,  leaving and returning from a bird’s version of Home Depot with just the right materials in his beak. Only when he was done would the mama bird show up, and eventually, tiny eyes could be seen peeking out from above the shreds. At the end of the season, without even a goodbye, the family would be gone. Their nest would be left behind for some other family or depending upon the dad’s building prowess, it would fall and eventually be blown away. 

The pastoral image of little ones being sheltered by any semblance of a home is comforting. But when those children are no longer little ones and the time comes for them to leave, that homespun visual of a warm embrace and cuddle up in bed cuteness gets altered. And what was once a “nest” has now become an “empty nest,” and the visual for that is quite different–stark and spare, and a lot less comforting.

Adding insult to injury, some other wordsmith came up with the “Empty Nest Syndrome,” a phenomenon that occurs when the nest one has so lovingly built gets emptied by the ones for whom it was created. “How can these guys and gals do that to us?” we ask. We gave them love and shelter, and they leave us with twigs and bits and pieces of string.

"My son’s bedroom will now become a guest room and his “desk” in the kitchen will now become a baking station..."

My younger son was still with us on a short summer break when my husband and I moved into our new place just three weeks ago. Although a lot of his things are still here, he’s now gone; this is really our place. For the first time in twenty-eight years (practically our entire marriage), we are living closer to more family and old friends than ever. They’ve been coming by to visit and chat, and fill up the spaces that my son left behind. So, it’s not exactly “empty.” And considering we occupy the top three floors of a brownstone, most metaphoric types would consider it, not a nest, but more of an aerie. Especially when you look out through the top skylights and see nothing but blue and the random bird flying by.

My son’s bedroom will now become a guest room and his “desk” in the kitchen will now become a baking station–things they were intended to be when we first looked at the space. This has never been a place where two little boys wrestled and played so loudly with many other little boys that you thought they would fall through the ceiling. No birthday parties with cakes made to look like pizzas and baseballs and dinosaurs have ever been thrown here. The two beautiful wooden and glass front doors welcome you when you walk up the stoop (yes, we have a stoop!), but they’re not the doors that my boys stood in front of for their annual first day of school photo.

So, I am left to wonder as I walk by my son’s/my guest’s bedroom, did this place ever function as a “nest?”  And if not, do I have the right to feel even the least bit of Empty Nest Syndrome here? The question is similar to the one I often asked during the early days of being far away from two boys to whom I had been virtually tied at the hip for so long. Are you still a mom when it seems like it’s been ages since you’ve seen those you’ve mothered? (Did you really mother anyone at all?) Are you still a mom when the “mom-ish” tasks you have been doing for so many years are no longer necessary…or are just different? 

 "Are you still a mom when it seems like it’s been ages since you’ve seen those you’ve mothered?" 

Years ago people stayed put, and the family home often got handed down. Generation after generation could feel the same feelings and live amongst the ghosts of the past. The impression of Great Grandma’s footprints had worn a distinct path from the kitchen sink to the stove. And the wooden bench in the shed still bore the indentation of Grandpa’s tool box. If you closed your eyes and concentrated, you might be able to hear your young aunts laughing in the bedrooms up the stairs.

The Baby Boomer credo is not to plod the same path often enough to wear out the floor, but to forge new paths. Midlife men and women are reconnecting, reinventing, and like my husband and myself, relocating. We are not our grandparents or even our parents.

This has not been the first move we’ve made from the original “homestead,” and the “heirlooms” have long since found other homes. The emphasis is on turning, not to things, but to experiences that will have legacy value. As we all grow older and age, a mom task can be done via Skype or during a text. And a nest can be made not only in a tree high in the sky, but high in the sky in a row on a plane as you sit next to your son and talk about his future and the dreams and hopes you have for him.

This originally appeared in Betterafter50.com

How Moving Forced Me to Declutter

With an (yet another) upcoming move on the horizon, the very wet July 4th was taken as a sign that it was time to begin purging packing. The last time we moved, three years ago, I had the Herculean task of consolidating a whole load of crap beautiful things from many years of living in a large home into less crap a proper amount that would fit into an apartment…across the country. This time, the move will not be nearly as far-flung, and the space will be relatively the same, just reconfigured. So, this time it will be a “breeze.” I thought.

Tackling the big, black hole of my closet, was a scary project, but I was up to the task. I had been very conscious of space limitations these past three years, and thus was “relatively” prudent when it came to purchasing new things. (Or so I thought.) I did try to adhere to the recommendation, one thing in, one thing out, but if there is really anyone on this earth who actually abides by that hogwash, I would love to meet her. 

For some expert advice, I turned to an article in Elle Magazine, that suggested I look at the entire process as a “cleanse.” Not exactly an appetizing endeavor, but one I could wrap my head around, since the only thing actually getting the colonic was my closet. As I went through the physical things that basically told the story of my life, the questions I asked myself were not, as the article stated, “Was I high?” but “Haven’t I done this before?” and “Why weren’t these thrown out three years ago? 

I obviously could not detach myself enough the last time I packed, but I was determined to be ruthless this time.The too small (yes, there were more of those), too outdated, too stained or torn items were immediately relegated to the “toss” pile…but then there was the old high school sweatshirt (was it even mine to begin with?), the tee shirt from the final parents’ weekend at my son’s college (that I only wore once–during that weekend), the shirt my former coworkers gave me when I left New York, that said “I Love NY” and left sparkles behind me whenever I wore it. Now that I was moving back to New York–shouldn’t I be wearing it again? (NO!) 

Any workout wear that was too short, too old or too worn was aerobically lobbed into the throwaway pile…but some of those pieces reminded me of the instructors I had loved (and lost) during the years. And what of the sweaters that came with me to Los Angeles (where I never wore them) from New York over 25 years ago, and then back to the East Coast (and I still never wore them)? Those heavy, itchy, classics were…classic! After they saved me during the most horrific winter, how could I give up on them now? Ruthless me turned the sweater skyscraper on the floor into a one-story double-wide. 

"I am by no means a shoe diva, 

but the amount of shoes I've 

amassed would give 

Imelda Marcos pause."

And then it was on to the nightgown/lingerie drawer. The crossword puzzle pj’s that my hubby bought me, thinking they were SO adorable (and they were…uh, are!), but have yet to come out of the bag. My barbie doll nightgown (that would be, not one that makes me look like a barbie doll, but one that is flannel, and has barbie dolls scattered all-over-it) has been with me since before I was married (really…I haven’t worn it since I said “I do!”) 

I am by no means a shoe diva, but the amount of shoes that I’ve amassed would really give Imelda Marcos pause. Since I am now trying to adhere to the “Slow-Fashion Movement,” any pair of shoes that were bought cheaply and worn once (or never) got tossed. Better to leave the curating of a footwear museum to the wise people at the Smithsonian. 

As the day wore on, melancholy began to settle in. I realized one does not have to actually wear the clothes to appreciate them. There is a lot of sentiment and memories metaphorically woven into those fibers. I have read de-cluttering articles that suggest taking photos of the well-loved and well-worn items, and I can appreciate that, but it’s just not the same as looking closely at something and immediately knowing when you wore it, whom you were with, and how it made you feel. Touching the fabric brings you back to when you last touched it. There might still be a hint of perfume or body lotion (OK, sometimes not so good) hanging on for dear life. You can’t get that from looking at a photo. 

And then a voice inside me yelled, “Snap out of it!” One glass of wine–this was only a symbolic “cleanse”–and I could feel the fibers of mental strength coming together once more. By the time I got done, the boxes were packed, the closet and drawers were empty and I had the satisfaction of knowing that there would be some lucky people tap-dancing in their new shoes, and happily itching in their newfound sweaters come next winter.  (And emptier drawers and closets on the back end will enable me to do some more shopping!) 

"And then a voice inside

 me yelled, 'Snap out of it!'"

As I said, the rainy weather served as good incentive to get some work done, and my husband felt the same way. He had his own piles of giveaways, and he is by no means as attached to his belongings as I am. He’s out running as I write this, so it’s a great opportunity for me to check on what he’s got in those bags…and I think I see an old Hawaiian shirt from many moons ago that he definitely should NOT be parting with…not yet anyway.

This article previously appeared on HuffingtonPost.com

Relocation Anxiety...It's Not Only For Humans

(This post previously appeared on Betterafter50.com and The Huffington Post.)

One of the hardest things about relocating from West Coast to East Coast, from house to apartment, from suburb to city was not my adjustment... it was dealing with the adjustment of Dashiell, my dog. As crazy as it sounds, that almost had me running for the hills... yes, the hills of Beverly!

I know that owning a pet is supposed to be good for you... in fact, just last week the American Heart Association released a statement claiming that owning a pet, a dog in particular, was "'probably associated' with a reduced risk of heart disease," and I get that. You have to walk a dog, thereby getting some exercise yourself, but the article never mentioned how having a dog might also be harmful to your mental health!

I realize now that it was pretty unrealistic (and somewhat unfair) of me to assume that Dashiell would just adapt to any new situation, regardless of how different it was from his old one. Why wouldn't he?... When we first rescued him, didn't he boundlessly race at us on the heels of a 17-hour drive from Utah to California? Didn't he seem deliriously happy with us, even though he had just met us?

Why would I think a six-hour plane ride in a crate would send him into a tizzy? Why would I think that getting on an elevator, while strange people would continually be coming in and out, would cause him to growl and lunge at said strangers?

Why would I think that being left alone in a unfamiliar apartment with the door closed while I went to the market or the movies would cause him to chew the door and eat an entire leather purse?

Silly of me to just assume that everything would be copasetic. After all, I didn't exactly chow down on some leather and wood, but my adjustment wasn't what you might call a "piece of cake," either.

Historically, dogs have been looked upon to be servant-soldiers, combining the attributes of a best friend with that of a true guardian. I began to realize that in his new situation, Dashiell was not being allowed to perform his old doggy duties -- guarding the back yard, front yard, upstairs and downstairs of our lives, so he was adopting new roles for himself. The problem with those new "soldiering" roles was they were not going to fly in a high-rise in Cambridge, Massachusetts.

Relocating with children in tow has its own challenges, but if they are old enough to communicate their fears, and ultimately make new friends, that's half the battle. We had done that once before, and it all worked out perfectly. When it became clear to me that Dashiell was trying to communicate his fears, in his own destructive and scary way, I realized that if he was to remain a part of our family, a trainer would be needed.

That trainer, and time, have considerably improved his situation, and thus mine. Yes, he still lunges at (some) neighbors, but I always have a snack on hand and that usually diverts his attention long enough to calm him down. He's learned to sit and wait at stoplights and he is now used to all the city sounds that used to make him wince. The crowds no longer bother him, and the elevator no longer gives him the heebie-jeebies.

He doesn't mind being left alone at home. (He knows that once I'm gone he can sneak into our spare bedroom and sleep on the bed-I'm onto him, though.) No other purses or leather objects have suffered the same violent death as did the first purse, although tissues and toilet paper have to still be kept out of sight.

Awhile back, the two of us were on the elevator and a neighbor came on and asked how he was doing. "He has some good days, and some bad days," I remarked. And since we are in MIT territory and amongst the most erudite of erudites, her reply was not merely, an "Oh, I see," but,"Your dog is a metaphor of life."

And you know something, she was right. But taking it a step further, I would say, Dashiell is a metaphor of me. I have not totally adjusted to my new situation, but my attitude has definitely improved. Some days are better than others, and when some neighbors (or on a VERY rare occasion, my husband) annoy me, a nice snack does help. I've made some very interesting friends, as has Dashiell, and going to doggie day care every once in a while has really helped him become more sociable.

The relocation road has not been an easy one, for either of us, but with a little training, a rub behind the ears, and lots of love, we both will make it through.

AND AWAY WE GO....

And away we go...I have been toying with the idea of writing a blog for some time, but I never seemed to have the courage to put pen to paper--or finger to keyboard. Until now.  Write what you know, they say, and right now what I know about is relocating, so lots of what I am going to pontificate about here will be about just that. I’ve recently moved 3,000 miles (will have to verify that exact distance at a later date)--from Calabasas, California to Cambridge, Massachusetts. This move, and all the, excuse the expression, “baggage” that comes with it, has been consuming my life for over a year. That was when the hubbie decided he was going to move to Boston to run a company. The arrangement would be that I would follow roughly one year later. Fast forward thirteen months and here I am--with some furniture, millions (slight exaggeration, but not really) of cartons, clothing wardrobes, jars of various sauces, oils, pastas, grains, baking supplies, cookware, and one severely traumatized dog.

As I muddle through my new life, anyone who wants to muddle with me can follow my path. Along the way I plan on including my observations of New England, some book and restaurant reviews, baking tips, recipes, and whatever else pops into my head.

Welcome to my world, and hang on tight...it’s going to be a bumpy ride.