In 20 days, my youngest daughter, Sara Ann, leaves for college. It’s the most significant life change since I first became a mother in 1988. I’ve been counting down the days, not to be morbid, but because it’s easier for me to process if I’m aware of what is happening.
We spent this past weekend at my family’s lake house on Greers Ferry Lake in Arkansas — the setting for some of the best times of our lives. It was our last lake weekend before The Empty Nest and my first inclination was, don’t think think about the fact that it is the last, just enjoy the time.
Except … while thinking about it certainly brings tears, do I really want to look back on these days and remember nothing special about them? No — I want to savor every moment; I want to be fully there. Tears are a small price to pay for the memory of:
The last dinner at the table at the lake. Steak, baked potatoes, garlic bread and peach cobbler. A nice bottle of Cabernet.
The last day on the lake. An idyllic sunny day with a pleasant breeze, screams of joy on the inner tube and time to relax and enjoy the clear water and unspoiled beauty of the foothills of the Ozarks.
The drawer. As we packed to leave, she showed me “her drawer” in the master bedroom. I hadn’t known about this drawer. It contains things she has kept there since she’s been old enough to open a drawer. Books, markers, hair clips, coloring books, rubber bands, some small toys, pencils. Little girl things, not college girl things.
The drawer took me back to a time when college would happen someday, not in 20 days; when many more dinners, sunny days, skinned knees, broken bones and broken hearts lie ahead.
I’ve never believed that to display emotion is to show weakness, that it’s necessary to deny what we feel in order to be strong. In my experience, it requires more strength to face that which is painful; to walk through rather than try to walk around and pretend to be unaffected.
So in 20 days, when I leave my youngest three hours away in Conway, Arkansas, I will feel it. I won’t distract myself with busyness, or try to take my mind to a happy place. I’ll curl up in a ball and cry if I need to and I’ll remember every thought, every feeling, every moment. And I know there will be a time when it hurts just a little less.
But for now, I’m going to count down the last 20 days and treasure each one. Even if it costs me a tear or two.
What is the one thing you are least likely to do? Jump out of an airplane? Go camping? Run a marathon?
There is no skydive, no tent and definitely no 26.2 in my future, but if you had asked me this time last year what I’d be less likely to do than any of those … it would be get a tattoo.
So nearly a year ago, when my youngest daughter started talking about getting a tattoo for her 18th birthday, I tried to pretend I didn’t hear her. She already has about six ear piercings, so I’ve grown accustomed to her unconventional look and am far less concerned about her outer appearance that who she is on the inside. But a tattoo is so … permanent. And she’s only 18.
As I listened to her, I realized that she didn’t want it for the purpose of rebellion; she’s a lot of things, but rebellious isn’t one of them. She wasn’t interested in the impression it would make on others. She wanted a tattoo because she wanted a visible symbol of her faith in a place where she, and others, would see it every day.
So I began to warm to the idea, accept that her preferences and tastes may be just different than mine and respect the fact that her faith is something she wishes to carry with her in a visible way for the rest of her life.
Sara Ann’s dove, on her right wrist
Then the other shoe dropped.
“Mom,” she said. “For my 18th birthday, I want to get a tattoo and I want you to get one with me. I want it to be a mother-daughter thing. I want us to do it together.”
What? No way. You have got to be kidding.
But …
She kept asking. She was not joking.
And I realized something. This was not another hole in her ear. This was forever. Visible to all. For her, it was a profound moment. The moment she would put a symbol of her faith on her body in a way that all would see. Irrevocably. And she invited me into that moment.
One thing I’ve learned in 21 years of parenting: When your teenager asks you to be a part of a significant moment in their life, it’s a high honor, not to be taken lightly or scoffed at. So, at 51, this suburban housewife got inked.
It brings to mind this:
Love the LORD your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength. These commandments that I give you today are to be upon your hearts. Impress them on your children. Talk about them when you sit at home and when you walk along the road, when you lie down and when you get up. Tie them as symbols on your hands and bind them on your foreheads.* Write them on the doorframes of your houses and on your gates. Deuteronomy 6:5-9 (*emphasis mine)
My cross, duplicated from a silver cross necklace Jim gave me years ago
In ancient days, observant Jews bound what is believed to be these verses to their bodies in leather boxes called tefilin, translated into Greek as phylactery, so the idea of having a visible reminder of the faith attached to the body is not a new one. Perhaps in the same way, the dove that will now always adorn her wrist will remind her of the Holy Spirit’s constant presence in her life.
I know that the cross on my left shoulder blade, the same side of the body as my heart, will ever remind me of the sacrifice of the Cross, the grace of the Cross and the glory of the Cross.
And a sacred moment between mother and daughter that took place late at night in a funky tattoo shop in downtown Jonesboro, Arkansas.
The last photo taken of us together – at an Easter egg hunt in my hometown, Jonesboro, Arkansas on April 10, 1993
About 17 years ago (June 13, 1993), my Daddy left this earthly life. Each year at this time I write about him and one or more of the qualities that made him the kind of man I want to write about 17 years after his death. This year, it’s idealism.
His idealism was best understood through the words of his favorite song, The Impossible Dream from his favorite story, Man of LaMancha. He first introduced it to me via the soundtrack recording on eight-track tapes on the way to our farm just outside the Jonesboro city limits.
At the time, I was too young to fully grasp the meaning, but I listened carefully and learned the words because I knew that for Daddy to let me listen to music that contained the words hell and whore, it must be very special.
Based on a book by Dale Wasserman, the play is about Miguel de Cervantes, an imprisoned novelist who defends himself by staging a play. The central character in the play is a country squire named Alonso Quijana, who might have rightly been called an early social justice advocate. His despair about oppression and evil in the world drives him to madness and in his mind he becomes Don Quixote of La Mancha, who fights to rectify society’s wrongs and bring about justice.
After losing a battle with a windmill, which he sees as a four-armed giant, he attributes his inability to conquer to the fact that he has never been properly dubbed a knight. As Don Quixote, he sets out with his servant, Sancho, on a journey in search of glory and knighthood so that he can fulfill his quest to conquer injustice. Along the way he finds himself at a small inn, in his eyes a castle. Here he encounters a band of rough, drunken men and several prostitutes, one of whom he comes to adore and admire as the fair maiden he see when he looks at her. The woman, Aldonza, is initially cynical but is won over as he sings to her of The Impossible Dream and joins him in his quest. (Read a full synopsis of the play here.)
Regardless of the writer’s intention, the message of the story communicated to me by my Dad was the beauty that Quixote sees in ordinary things and people devalued by society, the importance of fighting for truth and justice even when it seems impossible, and the idea that we are each called to do, sacrificially, what we can to improve the lives of others.
To dream the impossible dream
To fight the unbeatable foe
To bear with unbearable sorrow
To run where the brave dare not go …
And the world will be better for this
That one man, scorned and covered with scars
Still strove with his last ounce of courage
To reach the unreachable star.
— Lyrics by Joe Darion, full lyrics here
I hope she does 1 and 5 (but let’s wait a few years for 5), 3 is coming soon, I figure she’ll do 4 in a year or so and hope she’ll never do 2, 6 or 7.
My oldest child graduates from college tomorrow.
I can hope, pray and plead, but the decisions are now theirs. I can influence, advise and guide, but I can no longer control.
A few weeks ago, around the time of her 18th birthday, Sara Ann placed these things on my kitchen table. No more denial about this graduation thing. It is going to happen. It’s now three months and a few days until we move her into the dorm at Hendrix on August 17. Until my life changes more drastically than it has since September 20, 1988, when I became a mom for the first time.
One of my favorite songs, While My Guitar Gently Weeps, by George Harrison, has a line that says,
“with every mistake, we must surely be learning …”
I think that sums up parenting pretty well. And I’ve made my share of mistakes.
What have I learned? I’ve learned that many of the things that I thought were Really Big Things are really … not. Such as:
Potty training Really, we make this so much harder than it needs to be. Early potty training does not equal higher intelligence. No toddler who doesn’t want to use the potty is going to do it consistently for little pieces of cereal. I promise by the time they hit puberty, you will have forgotten about the potty.
How clean/messy they keep their room When they go to college and get a room of their own, they will either do better at it or learn to live as a slob.
Grades in middle school Middle school demands that a family shift into survival mode. It’s the bridge between elementary school playmates with squeaky voices and classmates with facial hair and raging hormones. Boys are icky vs. Ohhhh, he is hott*. It’s a time of transition: socially, academically, emotionally and physically. More than anything, they need a safe environment, free from undue pressure.
What they wear Beyond basic decency and modesty, let them express themselves freely. My two girls’ styles are as different as night and day; one can spend an entire day in stilettos on concrete and the other is all about Tom’s and Chacos. And both are absolutely beautiful in their own way. Their style is not an expression of you and it’s not their job to impress your friends with how nice they look.
Shaving I’m speaking about girls here; I know next-to-nothing about boys and shaving. Let them shave when they want to shave. The main thing about shaving is talking about it. I shaved, I need to shave, Omigosh it’s been a week since I shaved! This is just not important enough to let them feel excluded about. It’s hair. Let it go.
The most important thing I have learned in 21 years of parenting is savor every moment. From the first step to the first date, there is joy in every milestone. Take a million pictures, even when it seems silly. You’ll be glad when you look back at them and you won’t remember how much they complained.
Be there with your whole heart. Shop for school supplies and prom dresses. Be the one who always drives them places and listen to them laugh with their friends. Let them mess up your house and stay up all night, even if they keep you awake. Watch them fall in love and hold them when their tender heart breaks for the first time.
Welcome each new phase; in every change is a glimpse of the adult that you’ll someday know as friend rather than child. The one who just might give you grandchildren.
*This is not a typo; two ts means he/she is really hot. Which is just like cute, but scarier.
I just left a business networking event with accomplished entrepreneurs, consultants and more CPAs than I’ve ever seen in one place in my entire life. Although as a general rule, financial people scare me to death, these were gracious and welcoming folks and I enjoyed the event immensely.
The speaker for the evening was attorney Cary Schwimmer, who specializes in employment law. Though I’m a freelancer with no employees, there were still valuable takeways. Schwimmer outlined the top ten employer mistakes, which ranged from poor documentation of performance and disciplinary problems to the tax implications of employees vs. independent contractors. Information I won’t use tomorrow, but have definitely filed away for the future.
The top mistakes shared a common thread — a lack of integrity. Failure to treat people with dignity, fairness and respect, lack of appreciation and nonexistent or dishonest communication. In an age where technology advances almost daily, I’m reminded that there is still nothing new under the sun.
My Christmas tree doesn’t look like much anymore. In fact. there are no gifts under the tree at all. There isn’t even a tree skirt; the dogs just keep playing with it and doing their business on it, so what’s the use?
These days, the girls’ Christmas lists just include money and gift cards so they can shop for themselves. I don’t fight mall traffic or stand in line for Beanie Babies, Tickle Me Elmo or Furby. There are no packages hidden under drop cloths in the garage. I haven’t wrapped one single gift this year. No reason to charge the video camera to record the excited faces on Christmas morning.
Sound kinda depressing?
Not at all. I’ve traded frenzied shopping, lists and lines for time. More time with loved ones, especially my girls, whose time with us slips away too quickly. More time to relax and enjoy the season, to pause and reflect on why we celebrate Christmas.
Yesterday I did nearly half of my shopping in about 15 minutes’ time. That must be some sort of record, right? There are a couple of gifts to buy, but I won’t be stressed, hurried or frazzled. I’ll enjoy the cool weather, the decorations and the Christmas carols on the radio.
I’ve learned to embrace the changes that come with each new season of life, even as I look back misty-eyed on years past. It’s not like that anymore, but it is like this. And this is amazing.
How have your holiday celebrations changed through the years?
I turned 51 a couple of weeks ago. I like birthdays. And no cancer survivor in their right mind complains about getting another year older.
It’s kind of like a lopsided baseball game — even though the winning team is far ahead, they still try to cross home plate one more time. You can certainly win the game without the insurance runs, but they do make the victory a little more secure. At 51, I’m 11 runs ahead, which is a pretty nice lead.
A few random birthday reflections:
My family doesn’t even try to put all those candles on my birthday cake anymore; i just get the big number candles. I think they believe it would be dangerous otherwise.
It’s fun to watch my younger friends freak out when I tell them I finished my masters degree before they were born.
It’s cool to see the look of surprise when younger people realize I know how to work a computer and can type a text message just as fast as they can.
It’s good to have an excuse for being absent-minded and scatterbrained, which I’ve always been anyway. Now I can just remind people that I’m old. My kids buy it completely and leave me alone about the forgetfulness.
Every year is better than the last. The body may be falling apart, but my mind is full of the kind of lessons you only learn from experience. When I can remember them. See above.
I have a great life and am grateful for each and every one of these years. I love having adult and almost-adult children, especially when they turn out to be people you’d spend time with anyway. Marriage is better after 23 years than after one — anyone can be married for a year; 23 is a grand slam — and I’ve always wanted to hit one of those.
Note: I do know that baseball season is over. It’s the only sport I know enough about to make an analogy. And it’s only a few months until spring training starts.
Today would have been my Daddy’s 75th birthday. I always write about him on his birthday and reflect on his impact on my life. One of the qualities he lived and taught by example is giving.
Many times after he visited, we would find a $100 bill tucked away in some random place with his business card attached, usually bearing a bad money-related pun. We would find it days — in some cases, weeks — later. The last one I found in the freezer, and it said hard, cold cash. Groan.
A year or so before he died, Daddy decided we needed a piano and asked my mom, who sold real estate, to split the cost. He contacted a musician friend of ours who knew my preferences and swore him to secrecy. One Saturday morning, after my parents had spent the night with us, a man in a large truck came to the door and asked where I wanted my piano. As much as I had wanted a piano, I thought it was cruel irony. Until I saw the devilish grin on my Daddy’s face.
His lesson for us was that the kind of pure giving that the Christian life calls us to does not depend on the gratitude or perceived worthiness of the recipient; it does not require — and often avoids — recognition and seeks no reward other than the sheer joy of the giving.
Twice each year I get very sentimental about my Daddy; the week of the anniversary of his death and on his birthday, October 4. He died June 13, 1993, after a sudden, completely unexpected massive cerebral hemorrhage. Before that day his health was perfect, he was an active man, an avid golfer and led a life devoted to God, family and community.
An accomplished orthodontist, he was known for his research, admired by his students in the orthodontic department at the University of Tennessee in Memphis and loved by the patients he saw in his Jonesboro, Arkansas practice. As president of the Jonesboro Rotary Club, he was deeply involved in the community and after his death the Club named their most prestigious award after him, the James F. Gramling Service Above Self Award. He taught orthodontics in various places around the United States and abroad and published in professional journals. He had an impeccable sense of personal style, elegant and classic; much like a Brooks Brothers ad — blue blazer, well-cut gray slacks, starched white shirt and striped repp tie.
He was Dr. Gramling to some, Jim to many, Jimmy to my mom, Sonny to family and childhood friends and Dad to me. I remember him best driving the boat at the lake wearing this goofy baseball hat, which I still have. Though he taught hundreds of orthodontists in his career, I value the most the lessons less well-documented: the way he explained the early-morning dew on the grass to his granddaughter (my oldest daughter) Elizabeth, how he taught her to shop at Wal-Mart (never buy the one in front) and the grace, kindness and generosity he modeled for us all. He had the spiritual gift of wisdom and I cannot count how many times since he’s been gone that I’ve needed that wisdom.
After 16 years, I can look at photos of him, like this one, and smile and remember. I can watch a video and hear his voice and it doesn’t rip me apart from the inside out. Though there are still tears, it’s not overwhelming grief, but gratitude that, for far too short a time I got to know him and be loved and mentored by him.
In today’s economy, more of us are eating in than eating out. This suits me fine, as I love a crowd at the family dinner table — we’ve been known to squeeze as many as 14 people around our table for six. I enjoy having people in our home, whether it’s a Christmas party for 15 families in our home on five minutes’ notice and or a cocktail buffet for 45 after months of planning.
Our house is far from perfect; in fact there are several rooms that are somehow stalled in the redecoration process, but my guests aren’t coming for a home show. Don’t let that stop you from inviting friends into your home; just use what you do have creatively and focus on relationships and interaction more than the environment.
Here are my seven tips for lively, low-stress, fun dinner parties:
The House Get it cleaned up and ready several days ahead of time. Then you can focus on food and table prep rather than dust and dirty toilets. Once it’s ready, walk out the front door, and walk back in as if you were visiting for the first time. It’s likely you’ll notice things you wouldn’t otherwise catch.
Table Get it ready at least one or two days ahead. If you have more than one dining area, one table can be completely set up ahead of time. We use the kitchen table for appetizers, so I just stack the place settings near the table until it’s time to quickly set up.
Food Get to know mise en place. Literally means put in place. Do all of the food prep such as measuring, chopping, slicing and peeling before you begin to cook. Depending on the ingredients, some of this can be done a day ahead. Not only does this save time the day of the party, it helps you get a head start on the prep dishes.
Flow For a buffet, separate drinks from food to help with traffic flow. Serve from whatever space you have — I use the stovetop. For a sit-down dinner, Jim and I plate the food assembly-line style just before seating everyone so they don’t sit down to empty plates.
Plan for Extras You never know when someone will bring an extra person. For a larger party, I typically plan for about 10 percent more than the number of invited guests and enjoy the leftovers if we don’t need the extra food.
Relax There is no bigger party buzzkill than a stressed-out host. Your friends will remember the time with you more than the perfection of your house, the table or whether or not your sauce breaks. Keep it in perspective and don’t forget to enjoy the people.
Cleanup is Not Part of the Party I never let my guests do dishes. The last thing they remember should be conversation and good times — not the remains of someone else’s plate. Clear an area where dishes can be quickly stacked, then take the focus off cleanup — move to another room or serve coffee or dessert. Think of clean-up time as a way to unwind after everyone leaves; pour one more glass of wine and attack the dishes after the party.
Being a parent is all about the letting go. Not a new idea. So why after nearly 21 years as a parent do I sometimes still not get it?
We had this conversation at my house yesterday afternoon:
Sara Ann: Oh, yeah, Mom, I think I forgot to tell you that I almost got killed a couple of weeks ago. I was going to Starbucks before school and it was about 5:45 a.m. and this drunk driver was swerving everywhere and he almost hit me. I got out of his way, then he drove off really fast. I had to pull over because I was freaking out. Yeah, I guess I forgot to tell you …
After my pulse returned to normal, I asked her why she hadn’t told me sooner, as she’s generally pretty open. She shrugged her shoulders and said, “You would just freak out.” Well … yeah. Truthfully, I’m usually not one to freak and my girls have never been afraid to tell me things. But I’ll admit to a fleeting thought, “Back to carpool line. I didn’t mind that so much. I can take her to school every day. Then she’ll be safe.” For just an instant I wanted to take back control, to keep her with me, or, as she put it, “Uhh, Mom, just ruin my life.”
We all know that’s not the answer — I can’t protect her from drunk drivers when she’s on the road and I can’t shield her from mean girls, stupid boys, failure, disappointment and the consequences of her own choices. The truth is, I cannot keep her safe from any and all harm. But if I do my job well, I can teach her to cope with it.
Letting go doesn’t mean you don’t care — it means you do not allow yourself to worry about things you cannot control. You take reasonable precautions. You teach, pray, counsel, advise and guide — but worry has no constructive outcome. Take back the reins at the slightest hint of discomfort and struggle and you will raise a dependent child who will rightly doubt her ability to function in the real world.
When my girls were infants, learning to walk, I didn’t let them hit their heads, but they did fall on their butts a few times. You don’t learn to ride a bike without a skinned knee or two. It’s just harder with teenagers. The older the child, the bigger the risk.
With greater risks come great rewards. Nothing satisfies me more than a wise decision one of my girls has made as I walk behind her and provide guidance and advice rather than strict control.
I hate that Sara Ann was so close to what could have been a very serious accident, but I’m glad she gained a little experience and confidence to handle danger, to make a quick decision that may have saved her life. It’s probably better that I didn’t know about the drunk driver that day — somehow it’s easier to handle two weeks later when she can shrug her shoulders about it.
And there is nothing I could have done about it anyway.
Today is my 50th birthday. Not only do I not care who knows, I’m proud to be 50. Here are the things I’m proud of:
Two days shy of 22 years of marriage. That ain’t easy. You don’t know someone until you share a toothpaste tube, and you don’t really know them until you’ve seen for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health up close and personal.
My girls. They are 16 and 20, and beyond the maternal love for them, I admire and respect them as people. They are smart, beautiful, gifted and accomplished in their own right. Jim and I have raised them to be people of faith; they have made that faith their own and it guides their daily lives and shapes their future. Though I can’t claim credit, I hope that in some small way I’ve contributed to the young women they are today.
Perspective. I love that I remember the original version of the songs my kids like today. And I get to laugh at the invariably crappy remakes. I’ve seen bell-bottoms be in style twice. And when my kids laugh at my prom pictures, I’m old enough to know that in a few short years, they will laugh at their own.
Relationships. The group of people pictured above is my daughter, Sara Ann, and her group of friends. Over the past few years, I’ve watched them grow up — through middle school, Myspace, AIM, puberty, cell phones, Facebook, drivers licenses and now college visits.
Anyone who is disenchanted with today’s teens has never met this group. Earlier this week, they threw me a surprise birthday party. They bought me a wonderful present, cooked the food, but my favorite gift is the oversize card that each one signed with a personal message. I’m going to frame it and hang it in my office.
e as a slob.
