GONE

My nest is empty and I've suddenly become sympathetic to bereft mother birds everywhere. Seriously, somebody needs to take up a collection for some lovely birdhouses where these poor creatures can meet to weep together, share seeds, and flap their feathers in shared grief.

My children were born just over eight years apart. A perfect boy and his equally perfect little sister. It was wonderful, the bookends of our experience allowing each of them to live the spoiled idyllic life of an only child yet with one magical decade in the middle where the four of us enjoyed one another immensely. No measurable sibling rivalry, an adoring built-in babysitter for Aubrey, a little girl who thought (and pretty much still believes) her big brother is the greatest thing since sliced bread, only one horrible FAFSA form at a time, and two very content parents. Truly blessed.

Though reasonably tall, my daughter is a slight thing. The waist of her jeans more like doll clothing as I processed her laundry these past years. (An observation while folding which often spurred me to dream up ways to add more protein to her vegetarian diet.) But let me just say, her itty-bitty frame deceives. Because since this little girl departed for college last week, she has left a hole in our home which feels more like a giant sucking abyss. 

It is an ache which recurs in the most unexpected ways. Realizing there is no reason to be quiet as I catch myself habitually tiptoeing to the shower in the morning... finding a partially-used bottle of her hazelnut coffee creamer in the refrigerator...consoling the despairing cat as she paces the floor howling mournfully and races up to my daughter's abandoned bedroom AGAIN to look for the girl who has devotedly loved her furry face for twelve years... emptying her hamper for the last time until fall break (I ask you...who would have thought this could be sad?)... passing by the stupid red-hatted Travelocity gnome in the front garden - a ridiculous inanimate gnome which Aubrey has inexplicably named "Javier."...

Don't get me wrong, Aubrey is precisely where she needs to be. We are so proud of her.  She has gone off to do exactly what we've raised her to do. We wouldn't have it any other way. But here in our home, at least for this season, the absence of her laughter is near deafening. 

Twenty seven years of kids in the house is a blessedly long run and I am thankful for every minute. Stacking those years alongside the brief three married years Jim and I spent before we were expecting Isaac, it is suddenly obvious that we are sorely out of practice at being alone together. There will be a learning curve for sure; but I am optimistic. 

I've said it before and it bears repeating. It really is a good thing we still like each other. So...Though I despise outdoor adventures involving tents, insects, and campfire smell in my hair which doesn't wash out for a week, maybe we'll start brainstorming about buying a camper. We can torment both of our children by driving wherever it is they finally land, parking an over-wide camping monstrosity their driveways, and hooking up to their electric and water for months at a time! Perhaps I will start enjoying the mind-numbing game of football or Jim will unexpectedly realize he's been mistaken all these years and he LOVES watching cheesy chick-flicks and emotional dramas which heretofore have made him want to puke. Maybe in the next decade or two we'll discover we adore playing Scrabble, watching birds, or learning to ballroom dance.  

In spite of my pitiful state of nest-grieving, today I am taking time to thank God particularly for two marvelous things. The first is FaceTime, which makes it seem as though my daughter, son, and daughter-in-law are in the very same room speaking with me.  BEST FUN EVER. And the second is the guy with whom I still share this roomy nest. That man who thankfully took the time to be a kind, loving, and supportive husband while he was still in the thick of being a wonderful father. 

All in all a pretty good start as we begin testing the bold notion that the best is yet to come.

NOT IN CHARGE

It happened again today.  The timing was perfect; the unexpected happening undeniably composed by the master musician.  He is singing over me, even now.  

You call it coincidence but I must heartily disagree.  When these things transpire, I can practically feel the trembling quality of the air around me.  Undeniable movement as God sweeps his mighty hand across the disarray of my day.  

Truth be told, it hurts sometimes; this pruning business. Yet the tiny blonde hairs on my arm stand on end as he rearranges the things I cannot yet see into the patterns he chooses for my ultimate good. 

While I am too tired to muster appropriate thanks, he remains loving and almighty. While I question and even wince at his methodology, I cannot doubt the way he cares for me. 

I’m so glad he is in charge and I am not.  

THE DREADED EARLY MORNING PHONE CALL

The Travelers

My phone rang early and unexpectedly this morning.  I hate when that happens.  I was prepared to ignore it, getting on with pouring my granola, when I saw the name on the caller ID. 

The name which the voice feature on my phone was now trying to pronounce made my heart pretty much stop.  It was the name of a man I met through my husband’s employment.  I’ve known of this nice man for years without really knowing him at all. 

Having recent concerns about my husband’s blood pressure, specifically in relationship to his work, my hands began to shake as I crossed the kitchen to pick up the phone.

“Brenda?  This is S.B.”  (He obviously said his whole name, but for purposes of this story, let’s just use his initials.)  He sounded like he had something important to say and I had a sickening feeling in my stomach.  About the time I was gripping the counter-top for support; my racing mind began remembering that S.B. no longer works with my husband.  In fact I’m pretty sure he left the company years ago. 

Before I had a chance to stop imagining my husband in an ambulance and suck in a reviving breath, S.B. launched my emotional surfboard onto a new wave of worry.  “I got a text message this morning from Emery.” 

Okay, now my hands were in full-Parkinson shake.  Emery is my father’s best friend and he attends church with S.B.  I’ve been feeding cats for the last week because my parents are on a cruise with Emery and his wife.  This could only be terrible news. 

S.B. continued.  “I got your phone number from Steve Shelly.”  Steve is my brother-in-law and in my addled state of apprehension, my immediate thought was something like “Why the heck didn’t my brother-in-law call me or better yet drive the 2 miles between his house and mine to deliver terrible news?” 

But S.B. was to be the bearer of the tidings.  “Your mother needed to get a message to you.”  All of my anguish zoomed in on my father.  He always attends overseas trips and cruises with reluctance.  Though his wife is an ambitious and tireless globe-trotter (and he can’t stand when she goes anywhere without him), his heart is really back in Pennsylvania watching golf on television, an appreciative cat on his lap. Dear Lord no, I’m not ready to lose my Dad.

And then S.B. dropped the other shoe.  “Your mother thinks she might have an appointment scheduled on Friday morning for a haircut and a facial and she wants you to cancel it.” 

Seriously?  This one minute early morning phone call which had doubled my heart rate, shot my adrenalin levels to remarkable heights and sent my impressionable brain on a circuitous route through terrors like emergency rooms and ship doctors was going to end at the Classic Hair Salon in Trumbauersville?  I was effectively reduced to a pile of jelly.

It took ten minutes for my hands to stop shaking.  There had best be something better than a My Parents Traveled the Seven Seas and All I Got Was this Lousy T-Shirt in my mother’s luggage.

THOSE FRUSTRATING FLAKES

Impossibly fat flakes are sailing sideways outside my February window, each cumbersome crash-landing adding inches to the frozen tundra which was my lawn.  It would be helpful if the accumulation from last week’s storm had melted in time for the predicted foot of this new onslaught; but no.  The face of the grungy traffic-stained ice pile just keeps adding duplicitous cosmetic layers of white. Although deceivingly lovely, it qualifies distinctly as insult to injury.

Today is snow day number seven and this is getting really old.  Only two snow days are built into the school year and at this point, I expect we’ll be handing out sparklers to celebrate July 4^th with our freckled summertime students.  Some of my coworkers actually love these snow days.  I grow increasingly convinced of the premature senility of said coworkers.

My feelings of intolerance toward this winter grew exponentially and perhaps a bit unfairly last week during an ice storm on my husband’s birthday.  We were without power for only ten hours. Unfortunately during the first three of those hours, our finished basement was quietly filling with ice water while our comatose sump pump looked on in horror. Despite heroic bailing, a cooperative project involving neighbors collecting and running heavy-duty extension cords to someone’s whole house generator, and the continual running of countless fans and dehumidifiers, our home soon took on the convincing scent of a wet alpaca.  Air-freshening plug-ins were employed and at this morning’s juncture (six days later), the innocent fragrance of well-intentioned masking vanilla effectively makes me gag.  Surviving furniture is piled in the center of the room, nearly to the ceiling.  The carpets (which were heretofore the nicest quality in our house) are detached from their baseboard homes and curled unkindly toward the center of the room with their padding unceremoniously ripped from below. The diagnosis is grim and I fear the carpet’s ailment will likely be fatal.  Bags of ruined items have been sent out to the dumpster, leaving lots of work to be done. The whole thing is reminiscent of a war zone and my patience with winter has grown transparently thin.  If the power goes out again with the storm today, it is likely I will respond in an unhelpful manner. 

I should have mentioned one additional tidbit above.  During some of the most exciting water bailing and cord running of the aforementioned mayhem, there was an insistent knocking at our front door.  I answered with my hair standing on end (I had taken a cold and dark shower that morning in our powerless house.) My sweatpants were rolled fashionably up to my thighs, my winter boots peeking beneath my long wool socks, in my hand -a dripping wet bucket and upon my face -a crazed look.  A neighbor (already aware of our flooding plight) looked on sympathetically and with barely concealed amusement as she reported that one of our large ice-coated mulberry trees was leaning convincingly over their driveway and threatening to “take out” our backyard fence.  Jim had to divert his basement preservation attempts to climb up under the massive icy branches and attempt limb amputation by handsaw.  Timing is everything.  Never let it be said that the Shellys don’t know how to party.

One of the best reasons to take a school nurse position is to avoid driving in contrary snowy conditions.  I am not the world’s greatest driver to begin with (I know this about myself but will argue it vehemently if suggested by my husband.)

Driving at night in this year’s winter weather has become increasingly difficult.  My 52 year old eyes are just a small part of the problem.  The larger issue is the veritable minefield of potholes which has developed, seemingly overnight.  Some of these fissures are enormous, swallowing entire front ends.  Almost every time I venture outside, I see some poor sod stuck along the road with a flattened tire. My husband is just one of countless victims.

It is almost impossible to see these holes when blinded by the headlights of an oncoming car.  Seemingly out of nowhere, I hit an impressively deep hole last night. Most of the lights on my dashboard blinked simultaneously in a demonstration of protest and I was sure I’d be calling for assistance.  (In fact when asked last night, it occurred to me that I have NO IDEA if there is a spare tire in my trunk….) Somehow there was still air in my tire when I drove the car home.  I’m a little afraid to go out into the garage this morning to see if my luck (and the air) have held.

The widespread road damage being what it is, I don’t think there is any way to patch all these holes.   I’m wondering if it might make more sense to install some small air pressure machines, chocolate-containing vending machines, and supportive escape ramps inside the holes to make the cavernous ruts more user-friendly. 

This is the part of the writing when I start to feel guilty about whining.  I am, after all writing this in a warm and well-lit house and on a computer that is functioning. The clothing dryer is rumbling in the background and Aubrey’s favorite English classical radio station is streaming from the kitchen. Electrical access is a beautiful thing.  I’m going to put my 

chin up, ignore the scent of vanilla, and think about utilizing the two ugly bananas in my kitchen to bake something delicious.  Here’s hoping the power stays on until I lift those banana bars from the oven.