From the Home Front: Grumpy Pants



When Delaney (my 14 year old) came downstairs this morning, she was grumbling and fuming.  Soccer pre-season began this week.  So after a summer of sleeping-in, she’s getting up before 7am.  Let’s just say she’s been a little tired in the mornings.  I don’t know about your family, but when the members of my little clan are tired we tend to be a tad grumpy.  Even cranky.  Bristly, perhaps.  Irritable.  Plain Old Angry.  I’ve learned to give my girls a little space when they’re feeling this way.  That’s a little piece of wisdom that didn’t come readily or easily to me.  Because I like to talk things out.  Get to the bottom of things.  Solve problems.  Trouble shoot.  That’s usually a pretty good thing.  But on these grumpy mornings my little interventions seem only to fuel the fires.  And sometimes we’d end up in an argument.  It took a while, but eventually I figured that out.  So while she ranted and fumed, I just made breakfast.  And kept my mouth shut.  Looking up from time to time and nodding to let her know I was listening.  But generally staying out of the way.

While she was sitting across from me sipping her smoothie she grinned and said, “Guess I’m wearing my grumpy pants  today and I’ve got ’em cinched up really tight.”

The storm had passed and the sun was peeking out.  I just love that kid.  Even when she’s wearing her grumpy pants.



The Unbearable Severing




I was meditating this morning and a favorite scene from a movie slipped into my mind.  The movie is “How to Make an American Quit,” from 1995.  In this particular scene, Ellen Burstyn’s character is relating a tale of love, betrayal, family, and friendship to her twenty-something granddaughter, played by Winona Ryder.  She begins by saying, “When the person you love begins to die, there’s this unbearable……….severing.”  I heard her words in my head.  And the tears began to run down my cheeks, drip off my chin, trickle under my shirt.  You see, it seems I’m experiencing an unbearable severing of my own.  Not the death of a loved one.  But the growing-up and moving-on of my beloveds.

It’s always just been the three of us.   And we’ve always loved it that way.  I’ve experienced and acknowledged the passing of phases, always with a degree of longing, sometimes sadness, but also always welcoming what was developing.  Happy about what was next.  My eighteen-month old draped over my pregnant belly.  The two-year-old rocking the baby’s cradle.  Two small bodies curled in my lap, their curly heads tucked beneath my chin.  The days of painting, drawing, making candles and play dough.  Elbows deep in flour, baking chocolate chip cookies.  Long walks on fall days, chasing milk weed seeds and gathering wooly bears.  Dancing with their long evening shadows and jumping in leaves.  Crawling into my bed for apples and cheese, warm milk with honey, and bed time stories on cold winter nights.  Singing in the car.  Dancing in the dining room.  Painting bedrooms.  Dinner discussions lasting long after the food was eaten.  Soccer games. Friendship struggles. Hair styles and skinny jeans.  Jersey swaps.  Social Studies grades.  Homecoming.  Boyfriends.  Prom.   Friends.

My girls and I are really close.  I think that comes from my not having had a partner in raising them.  In many ways they’ve nurtured me over the years at least as much as I have them.  We’ve been a tight trio.  A force to be reckoned with.  A solid front.  A family.  But this phase is different.  The most challenging for me yet.  Because this is the phase where they become more independent.  Where they draw away.  Where they develop their own lives.  Their own lives away from me.  Independent from me.  And that’s exactly what they should be doing.  It’s healthy.  It’s right.  Not to mention it’s completely necessary, or so I’m told anyway.  But, now more than ever, I want to stop the planet from turning.  I want to stope the clocks.  In fact, I want to turn the clocks back.  I want that 18-month old climbing into my lap with a book.  I want that girl falling asleep on my pillow.  I want that running leap into my arms.  I want the small hands peeling apples next to me.  And the voices asking me questions, and telling me their stories, and needing help with her zipper.  I want the sleep-overs and pancake breakfasts the next morning.  I even want the screaming two-year-old  kicking in a football hold walking through the mall to the car.

I was going to give this post the title “Sweet, Healthy Pain.”  But right now, there’s nothing sweet for me about it.  It just hurts. It feels like a severing.  An unbearable one.  And I know this will pass too.  I know I’ll adjust and simply be happy for all they’re doing.  Because they’re doing everything SO darn well.  They’re such great young women.  But really, that’s what makes this harder.  I miss them.  No, it’s not over yet.  They still have a couple years left of school.  But it’s like that slow tearing-off of the bandage.  They’re not my babies any more.  Not my little girls, either.  And I know this next phase and all that follow will bring multitudes of joys.  I know that with all my being.  But for now I’m just going to feel sad, for a little while at least, and long for what once was.  Maybe even feel a little melodramatic about it.  That’s what they’d tell me, anyway.  That I’m being melodramatic.  Pretty soon I’ll be glad for all this.  My life will take a turn as well.  It’s time for me to do more of my own things.  I don’t know exactly what those “things” are.  But I will.  But for now, I’m just going to feel a little sad, and long for what once was and no longer is.



Jumping for Joy

There’s been a lot of excitement in our house for several weeks, building over the past few days.  It all culminates tomorrow.  Marleigh’s attending her first prom.  She’s going with a friend.  A senior.  She’s a freshman.  She has her dress.  Her new shoes arrived in the mail last weekend.  Manicure and pedicure tonight (!).  Hair tomorrow at noon.  Her date picks her up at 1.

The excitement is palpable.  The air is buzzing.  Delaney is bouncing almost as much as her sister.  There’s a constant chatter, mostly about nervousness and excitement.  But along with the excitement and planning, we’ve also discussed the potential hazards that often accompany prom.  Read: drinking, partying, and sex.  What to do if the situations arise, how to handle them.  Exit strategies.  We hope she doesn’t have to use them.  We want this to be a night of fun and laughter.  The stuff of great memories.  But if anything uncomfortable should arise, she’s comfortable with implementing our plan.

I’ve received some quizzical looks from other parents.  “Ninth grade is too young for prom”, say some of the looks.  “Do you KNOW what goes on?” say others.   I’ve been smiling, and pretending not to notice their concern.  I don’t explain anything to the parents with the concerned looks because I choose not to defend my parenting.  Marleigh’s prepared.  She’s a confident gal, secure in her own skin.  And I am confident that she will have a wonderful experience.  If, God forbid, things turn sour I will be here for her without question.  She and I both know that.

In a few days her first prom will be a memory.  Meanwhile, we’re basking in the joys and excitement of preparing for the event.  Jumping for joy.