The Empty Nest Approacheth

Last summer at this time the big question was “Is Tyler ready for his senior year?”  My answer was simple, “We don’t mention the “S” word in my house.”   Although I said it jokingly, deep down I was serious.  We simply did not talk about it. 

This past year has been a frenzy of activity and emotions. From the first day of his senior year right up to the Senior All-Night Party, it has been non-stop.  It’s almost July and we really haven’t slowed down.  We went from high school baseball right into summer ball.  Throw in graduation parties, a new kitten, and vacation planning and that’s my life right now.  It feels like every other summer except when nice, unknowing people ask me, “So, is Tyler ready for college?” And this is always followed by, “Are you ready?”  Punch me in the stomach, why don’t ya?!?

Okay, you all can quit asking me that now.  It’s just a reminder that in 55 days, Tyler will move into his dorm at La Roche.  It’s a reminder that in 55 days my life is going to change drastically.  It’s a reminder that prior to August 22,  I need to secure my tree stand in the tallest tree I can find on the La Roche campus and purchase the strongest pair of binoculars I can find. 

I think I’m actually in a state of disbelief.  I’m trying to treat this summer as if it were any other summer….as if at the end of August he will attend Shenango High School again….as if he’ll be sleeping in his bedroom here…as if he’ll be home every night to have dinner with me….as if I don’t need the tree stand and binoculars….as if I won’t need medicated come August. 

But….

The empty nest approacheth.

You know, it’s almost as if being a parent is a little like being Dr. Frankenstein. My work, for almost two decades, has been to create a human being who is prepared to go out into the world and thrive. But I’m not done. Seventeen years wasn’t long enough.   Parts are still missing. He can’t go! My work is not done! Like all of you, I didn’t receive an instructional manual when my child arrived.  And I have to admit, I've never been great at putting Tab A into Slot B. If there is a Quality Control Specialist on this case I'm in trouble. And in 55 days, I'll no doubt lie in bed staring at the ceiling, wondering if I tightened up that one bolt…..the bolt that will hold everything together.

In 56 days, I'll have to remember who the heck I am. I have been somebody's mom, somebody's taxi and somebody's lunch money for so long. What did I used to do? Anyone? I think I read books and once upon a time I was athletic. There had to be more to it than that, but I just don't recall. I suppose time will fill in the blanks….right?

That's probably enough for now anyway, because I'm sure a lot of my time will be taken up with worrying. During my drive to work in the morning, I’ll worry if he has clean underwear or if he slept in. In the evenings, my thoughts will be consumed with wondering if he is out gallivanting when he should be studying.   And those are just minor worries that will come up!  That tree stand idea is sounding more ideal as I type!

So, as I float through the remainder of the summer and my son prepares for college, I need to prepare for my empty nest. I already know that my mood will swing radically from sad to exuberant. Like childbirth, everyone has an opinion when it comes to sending off my only child to college. People say it will be very quiet. Apparently, this is a bad thing. They also claim I can now focus on me. Oh? Well, that’s part of the dilemma. After seventeen years of focusing on my kiddo, that’s going to be tough.  Plus, has anyone thought about the hazards lurking in the empty nest? I can think of three off the top of my head…….

Hazard #1--- The Front Door: For the last 3 years I lay in my bed awake until the front door opened and my son was home from wherever. I’d hear him lock it and turn on the alarm and start his bedtime routine. In 56 days, if I hear the front door open in the middle of the night, I need to grab my baseball bat and call 911.

 

Hazard #2 Rusty Spy Skills: I’ve been sleuthing around for almost 18years making sure my child was safe. I’ve listened to car pool conversations without letting on, and honed my olfactory senses to detect cigarette residue and underage drinking. I’ve become a master of social media and finding backdoors into each one.  In 56 days, I'll no longer need eyes in the back of my head except to catch the kitten climbing my drapes. A spying hiatus can hinder my skills and by winter break time, they will be useless. Use it or lose it. I might need to consider a new career in law enforcement, or pursue a CSI consulting gig.

Hazard #3 Wardrobe Malfunctions: Now that there is no teen at home to critique my clothing choices there's a really good chance I will walk into the world and embarrass myself. Hey, who knew it wasn’t cool to wear a fanny pack anymore?  Time to buy a fashion magazine or DVR "What Not To Wear".

It will be okay, though.  That’s what I keep hearing. 

So, to answer the question that I keep hearing over and over….Yes, Tyler is excited and ready for La Roche.  At least that is the image he portrays.  Is he nervous and full of anxiety on the inside, you betcha!  What incoming college freshman isn’t?  As for the second part of that question, I’ll be ready as soon as my tree stand is secure in the highest tree on campus. 

Mentor, Mentee and Mentos

This is the time of the year when gymnasiums and stadiums all over the country fill with graduates barely able to sit still during ceremonies before they will be set free to go on to do what they want.  It is the time of year when parents bounce from laughing to crying in a split second.

This is also a time when faculty members retire from their profession, cutting ties with the district that provided a weekly or bi-weekly direct deposit to their bank account.  Many of these retirees probably can remember the days when checks were typed and picked up in person in an envelope.

I am happy for these faculty members, now that they can go trout fishing, sleep in, stay in their jammies all day if they choose, poke around in bookshops, or travel to Antarctica, but when the retirement has to do with a person that I respect and regard as a mentor, that is a different story.  I’m happy, I’m sad….I want to beg that person to stay….

My mentor is retiring in a few days.  You all already know I’m full of emotion with my son graduating and moving on to bigger things, now this……

But there she is, or rather, there in the upper right corner of an invitation announcing the retirement celebration of 44 years in public education, is a picture of her, embellished in her sparkling Sabika jewelry. She is stylish and classy looking.  She is always impeccably dressed, head to toe.  Even in her 44^th year of dressing for the professional world, she wears stilettos that make my feet hurt looking at them. 

So why is it that I am so exasperated over my mentor's retirement? Retirement is, after all, part of the natural cycle of the professional world, and why would I not allow someone I care for and have known for so long to retire? Is it because it makes me realize that I am growing older and retirement won’t be long for me either?  Not at all. It has nothing to do with seeing myself age, though I have come to know what it feels like to prepare for a colonoscopy and compression mammograms, and my lungs do not breathe as easily as they once did when I try to “run” upstairs, in my sensible shoes, to assist a teacher with a question.  It has to do more with missing her and wondering what the future will hold for our district and selfishly, for me. 

My mentor gave me an opportunity, for whatever reasons, to take on a huge role in the district.  It makes no difference to me how she came to the conclusion to ask me or what happened behind closed doors prior, all I know is that I received a call last summer asking me to consider being the district assessment coordinator.  More so, she believed I could do it. 

I have spent this past year in the district office with her.  Our offices were connected by her administrative assistant.  I spent a year exchanging emails with my mentor about assessment, curriculum and standards.  We shared stories about our families, friends and bling.  As I became more comfortable, I let my hair down, so to speak, and whipped out the yo-yo when I was stressed about PVAAS.  I told silly stories about myself and shared my emotions about Tyler.  In return, she shared her emotions and stories of her daughter leaving to go to college.  I discovered that we had similar things in common.  I saw tears when she spoke about leaving the district and because of my respect for her, I looked away…..or maybe it was because I didn't want her to see my eyes tearing up. 

I spent this past year working my doopa off to prove myself to her and the faculty, staff and administrators of Slippery Rock.  I knew I could do this job and do it well.  I think I surprised a lot of people, including myself.….did I surprise my mentor?  I’m not sure.  She never said one way or the other.  She was quick with a “great!” “good work” or “fabulous”.  She didn't hover and didn't spend time looking over my shoulder, she trusted that I would get tasks done.  She somehow became a benign presence with me, and no, I will not stoop so low as to designate her with the label “guardian angel”.

But in this past year, we did become friends.

After spending a year in the District office, I have a new-found respect of what she does.  I understand now some of what it takes to be an administrator. I clung to any little advice she threw out, such as, “Kim, you have to think like an administrator”…..”Kim, being an administrator can be lonely”….”Kim, it’s not always black and white, look at the big picture”….”Kim, do what’s right for the kids”.  She mentored me without even knowing she did. 

I guess I could equate my mentor-mentee relationship to the candy, Mentos.  I love Mentos.  I would eat them in church…not wanting to share them, but I did because it was the right thing to do.  Think about the Mentos jingle:

       'Doo doo  doo, doo-doo, do-Wah!'

 It doesn't matter what comes, fresh goes better with life,

 and Mentos is fresh and full of life.

 Nothing gets to you, staying fresh staying cool,

 with Mentos, fresh and full of life.

 Fresh goes better, Mentos freshness, fresh goes better

 with Mentos, fresh and full of life!

 Mentos, the freshmaker!

I learned from her that nothing will get to me if I stay “fresh” with what’s going on not only in the district, but also at the state level.   This past year I stayed “cool” with the confidence knowing that someone supported me and had my back.  The jingle alludes to the fact that Mentos can help solve everyday problems, such as showing up at a party in a long evening gown when everyone else is wearing short dresses.  Easy fix! Pop a Mentos (click to watch), and enjoyable little candy, in your mouth and then rip the bottom off the gown!  Ta-Da!  Okay, so maybe the video is a little far-fetched but the point is that Mentos, like mentors, can help no matter what comes along.  My mentor helped propel my career with expert guidance and perspective from years of experience. She was also there for me with everyday situations that came up. 

Congratulations and good luck to my boss, my mentor, my bling-sister, and my friend.  I am looking forward to seeing what the future holds for her.  She may be done with our district, but I know she isn't done finding a way to impact education, showing others how to "stay fresh" and "stay cool" and adding sparkle to the world.  

It's Graduation, for Cryin' Out Loud

It started with his first cry, his first smile. Then the milestones became bigger, he rolled over, he sat up.  When he started walking I wondered where the last 9 months went, they flew by. Before I knew it he was talking in full sentences, attending preschool and becoming the person he was meant to be. Heshined his way through elementary school, succeeded in middle school and rocked his way through high school.

It seems as though Tyler’s senior year was like "One LONG Goodbye"....from the last "this" to the last "that" it seemed like I spent the entire year in tears. By the time graduation actually came, I think I was all cried out and more relieved and happy that the night finally came.

The Commencement ceremony was an amazing experience.

I expected to cry a lot. I expected to be an emotional wreck.  I grabbed about two dozen tissues and shoved them in my purse before I left the house.   I needed to be prepared for the Ugly Cry that was about to happen.  As soon as we pulled into the high school parking lot, I became teary-eyed. “I can’t believe this is happening.” I said to myself.

I didn’t cry.

I got out of the car and I did my best speed-walk-while-looking-lady-like-in-a-dress walk.  The parking lot was packed and I wasn’t going to get a good seat!  What if I had to sit in the back?  Gasp!  Plus, I wanted to sit on the side where I could see Tyler enter and walk to the stage.

The seats I found weren’t my ideal seats but it was on the side I wanted.  The gentleman that got stuck sitting next to me was a former MLB player.  I asked if we could talk “baseball” while we waited for the festivities to begin.  Although he probably wouldn’t agree, I felt I dazzled him with my baseball knowledge.  Finally, the music started, "Pomp and Circumstance”.  I grabbed a tissue from my purse.

I didn’t cry.

I watched as Tyler’s classmates entered two at a time, one in each aisle.  Some were smiling, some looked nervous.  Then I saw Tyler in the back of the auditorium.  A lump formed in my throat and my heart swelled with pride.  I watched him walk down the aisle, not making eye contact with anyone.  He wasn’t smiling, but he didn’t look like he wanted to run either!  I knew he felt anxious because everyone was looking at him.  He’s come such a long way.  I never took my eyes off of him until he sat in his chair on the stage. I let out my breath as he did when he was finally seated.

I didn't cry.

The ceremony moved right along.  The Salutatorian and Valedictorian gave their speeches. The School Board President and Superintendent gave advice and offered their best wishes.  The senior concert choir members sang “Sing Me to Heaven” which was simply beautiful.  Finally, the high school principal did a roll call of the graduates one by one.

I didn’t cry.

I took pictures of Tyler’s friends getting their diplomas while I waited patiently for his name to be called.  When his row stood up, I felt myself sit up taller in my seat.  Earlier, he made me promise not to shout out his name or cheer excessively loud after they announced his name.  I had to be “mature”, he said! I never took my eyes off of him.  I must have taken hundreds of photos documenting every move from standing up to moving inch by inch to the front of the stage...to standing “on the X” while his name was read...to walking to the Superintendent and school board members to receive his diploma....to hugging Coach Owrey, a school board member....and finally walking back to his seat to sit down. Again, we both let out our breath as he sat down.

I didn’t cry.

After all the seniors received their diplomas, the Class President stood to lead them in the traditional “turning of the tassel” ceremony.  The Class of 2014 turned their tassels, and then threw their hats in the air while parents, grandparents, siblings, friends and others clapped and cheered wildly. The students scrambled to gather up their hats when the recessional music began.  I watched and smiled as the graduates left the auditorium. There was nothing but smiles now from the graduates as they exited. I felt so blessed to be there watching my son experiencing that milestone in his life.

I didn't cry.

Graduation also means not seeing the parents of other Class of 2014 graduates regularly.  Some of these parents have become my friends. The ones with whom I sat with at sporting events and school assemblies. The ones who loved my child as much as their own; the ones whose children I likewise loved. We have carpooled and fed and clothed and vacationed and even provided toothbrushes for each other’s children. We have traded advice and complaints and discipline techniques. We have shared in joy and pain, in laughter and tears. And we have done much of this, most of this, while centered on our children’s activities.

Which were ending.

Today, as I reflect on that night, I feel incredibly proud not only of my son but also of the other members of the Shenango High School Class of 2014.  The amount of compassion they have is incredible.  They endured the loss of a classmate early on.  They supported each other through the years when a grandparent or other family member passed.  They were there for one another when families struggled with divorce.  They clung to each other when their beloved English teacher succumbed to cancer.  This is the group that voted Brittany as their homecoming Queen even though she had not been able to attend school since a debilitating neuromuscular disease left her fighting for her life three years ago. They've endured all the pressure and struggles that high school had to give.  As one of the speakers remarked, the Class of 2014 was like a big puzzle and each member is a piece of that puzzle; a piece that is needed to make them whole.

I didn't cry.

You spend 17-18 years teaching, loving, directing, advising, disciplining, tutoring and worrying. Then you have to let go, let them be (cough) adults, just last week they had to ask to use the bathroom, now they are expected to act like and have the responsibilities of an adult. That just seems so insane to me, I don't know how all these parents do it. I am so proud of him, so excited for him but at the same time I don't want him to go.

Next week, I'm sure I'll feel melancholy. I'm sure I'll wonder, as all parents do, where the time has gone. I'm sure I'll wish for just a moment that I could rock him to sleep, read him a bedtime story, or push him on the swings one more time.

I'm sure I’ll cry.

But it won't be because I want time to stand still. It will be because joy and pride sometimes overflow in tears -- and because I am so lucky to be able to watch him grow up, even if that means growing away from me.

Yay! Swimsuit shopping time! said no one ever!

Summer, though officially still a few weeks away on the calendar, is back.  Summer means grilling on endless repeat. Summer means watermelons, peaches, corn on the cob. Summer means driving with the top down, or, for those without jeeps and convertibles, with the windows open. Summer means thick, green grass and bees. Summer means boating or trips to the pool.  Summer means it is time to peel off the layers upon layers we wore to keep warm all winter.  Summer means swimsuit shopping.

Whoa! Wait! What?!?  I don’t wanna buy a swimsuit! Swimsuit shopping produces anxiety like no other!  My left eye starts twitching and my stomach feels like it is one giant ulcer.  I despise swimsuit shopping. 

Swimsuit shopping makes me realize that my actual size and the tag size never match, so I feel like a fatty no matter what.

Swimsuit shopping reminds me that my skin will be exposed, not only to the sun, but to other pairs of eyes besides mine.

Swimsuit shopping emphasizes the fact that I don’t look like a swimsuit model, whose diet probably consists primarily of celery, the only vegetable that burns more calories chewing it than it has. 

Swimsuit shopping convinces me that there is not enough celery in the world.

Swimsuit shopping is the only time I actually think it might not be so bad to join a religious faction that wears robes.

Each year I face the frightening debut of my swimsuit clad body… an event that sometimes requires months of preparation … dieting, shaving, waxing, weight lifting.  Pre-season prep time is about over.  It’s almost game time.  The most beautiful months of the year will be upon us soon….real soon!  Suddenly I’m thinking stealing that Reese’s Peanut butter Egg (or two…or three….) from Tyler’s Easter basket wasn’t the best idea.

So here I am, faced with shopping for a new swimsuit, damning the fashion industry for letting men wear baggy trunks that cover their non-cellulite thighs, while I am supposed to wear French-cut bottoms that ― unlike swimsuits of years ago ― doesn’t just show my leg, but my hip, my fat roll, and my down-yonder lady part that now has to be maintained so it doesn’t look like I’m smuggling Chewbacca.  Why do non-European men get to cover half their legs, while I get the material equivalent of a macramé plant hanger? How is that fair?

I think in my adult life, I have tried every swimsuit trick imaginable that would give the illusion of having a body like Christie Brinkley such as wearing support hose under my suit to keep my knees in place and making my legs tan

Black is slimming

       No large prints

           Vertical or diagonal stripes

                 

Sometimes I think about the Victorian era swimsuits…short-sleeved black dresses worn with bloomers and black stockings. As uncomfortable as that getup would be for swimming, at least I would have no worries about exposing my fat roll or my post-baby stretch marks or the cellulite I’m blaming on my deceased grandmother. Everything would be covered up and left to the imagination. There’s some wisdom in that somewhere.

During pre-game of summer last year, I got the brainstorm to try the Miraclesuit.  I grabbed a black (of course) one piece one off the rack at Macy’s and headed to the dressing room.  I’m going to look at least ten pounds lighter with this little black number…woohoooo!  I huffed and I puffed and I shimmied into the suit. It was hard work stuffing myself into that suit!  When I was done, I squinted at myself in the mirror and what I saw was nothing short of, well, a miracle. I had the torso of a Sports Illustrated swimsuit model. For a brief few seconds I imagined myself on a photo shoot after eating my lunch of celery…..laying my model-like body across the hot rocks as they spritzed water on my face to give me that “damp, fresh look”…..I lifted my hand and to wipe some of the spritzed water from my forehead while looking into the camera……

    Whoa! Wait!  I was sweating…

           A drop of sweat ran down that 

                   side of my nose….

                    Back to reality!

I opened my eyes wide and looked into the mirror again.  Holy 12-ply Lycra, Batman! That’s when I realized that what goes in one place must come out someplace else. I had so much fat under my arms that it looked like I was holding a piglet under each one. My stomach rolls were pushed so far down that Chewbacca now had my belly button for a nose! It looked like I had end tables attached to my outer thighs.  No wonder I was sweating!   So much for a miracle!

I swear I've tried every method known for decreasing attention from my body. I've worn shorts

over my swimsuit. I've sat in the sun and sand, sweating to death in a beach cover up. I've wrapped my beach towel around my waist like a sari.  I've even contemplated one of those over-sized T-shirts with an airbrushed picture of a thong-clad centerfold with a tiny waist and breasts the size of cantaloupes ― pouring out of a scant bikini top. Dye my hair a little lighter and people would then mistake me for Pamela Sue Anderson. Who wants that?!?

What I need to find is the thigh-slimmer knee-length pant with firm control underwire at the rear .swimsuit No?  It doesn't really matter.   With today’s anything-goes fashion, I think I can get away with wearing underwear to the beach. I’d probably get fewer looks than if I wore the black Miraclesuit that I tried on last summer!  Maybe I could wear a regular suit and carry a sign saying: “Looks aren't important. I am a good person.”

Yeah, that’s it...  A sign....One of those sandwich board things they use to lure you into pizza places.

I think I’m going to stick to online swimsuit shopping this season.  I’m still looking and I haven’t ordered anything, although the Land’s End halter tankini top looks like it could diminish some of the damage I've done to myself when I stole the peanut butter eggs from Tyler’s basket!   And there is also a swimsuit with a “beach living wide waistband” that might work.  Sighhh....

I've spent years not getting my picture taken….always being the “taker”. And I’m tired of being eliminated from my own scrapbooks, because the fashion industry has humiliated me into deleting myself from my own life. I've spent too many years feeling like I’m “not enough.” I may never be a size 2. And that’s okay. This is who I am right now ― a funny, fun-loving, kind person. I've decided to no longer be bullied by the racks of bikinis paving the way to the black suits with the skirts. Magazines with surgically- and Photoshop-enhanced miniatures of real women will not shame me into the shadows anymore. And you be certain that if I ever do get to a size 2, I still won’t want one a swimsuit with a thong bottom.  String is not a classy garment. It’s something you use to tie up the recycling.

It’s time to get busy and think about the upcoming summer months and finding a way to minimize my figure flaws. My goal is to find a suit that I can be seen in which won’t make me feel bad about myself. If I happen to find one that makes me feel confident and sexy, that’s a total bonus. However, at this point, I’d be content with one that makes me feel not totally unattractive!

I’m going to Google “muumuus.”