Choosing to swim
Last night I picked up two girlfriends to walk a boardwalk not far from here that stretches across two miles of New Jersey’s coast. It felt breezy as we walked towards the start of it and I immediately regretted not grabbing the sweatshirt I’d left behind in the car.
But it turned out to be a beautiful summer night and after 10 minutes of walking and talking, the breeze felt good on my bare arms as the three of us caught each other up on the details of our lives. We’re all sending sons off to college over the next few weeks and talked about our mental states as we prepared for lives with one less kid at home.
This is the first college send-off for both of these friends and each will be left with another teenager still at home and those younger siblings are currently driving their mothers crazy. In a perfect world, they would be the ones getting shipped off and their easier older siblings left at home.
But this is my youngest child who is leaving for school. Finally, after 10 years of helping his three older siblings schlep boxes and stuffed IKEA bags into dorm rooms and various apartments during and after college, it's my baby's turn to have his shit schlepped. I took him shopping last weekend at Target and Bed Bath & Beyond and he was fucking psyched to finally get his own flip flops and shower caddy.
I’ll move him into his own dorm room three days after my 55th birthday and when I pull into my driveway back in New Jersey after a long day of getting him settled, I will find myself alone at last.
And I’m not sure how I’m going to feel when I get out of the car.
On the one hand, I am not going to miss trying to get through the door off the driveway that’s blocked by every shoe my teenager owns -- flip-flops and Nike skate shoes with the heels crushed by his man feet that are a constant fixture by the back door despite all my complaining. I will also not miss the house reeking of Trader Joe’s lamb vindaloo that he often heats up in the microwave for a late morning lunch. Or the way it seems whenever I ask our kitchen Alexa a question, she responds at MAXIMUM VOLUME because apparently whenever I run to the food store, a house party ensues.
As we walked along the boardwalk on Friday night, the summer sky darkening around us as we passed families and couples out for a stroll, my friend, Kim, asked me to remind her how many years there were between my oldest and youngest kids. “You’ve been at this a long time,” she said in her slight Texas twang when I told her they were 10 years apart. “28 years!” she marveled, and I nodded and wondered where all that time had gone.
***
Historically, I’ve been pretty oblivious when entering new chapters of my life. Getting married. Having children. Getting divorced. It’s only been after I’ve been well into each new stage -- after pages and pages of action and dialogue -- that I’ve realized how much my life had changed.
But I have been staring down this impending new chapter of my life for a couple of years and have been hyper-aware of its presence, like the crew of the SS Poseidon as they tracked by radar the massive wave heading their way. And now that it’s almost here, I can see its dark shadow creeping over my shoulder, I realize that it really could have been a sink-or-swim situation had I not started making some changes before the wave hit.
Had I still been on the trajectory I’d been on over the last few years, I think I would have been swallowing some water right now. I was cobbling together freelance jobs, drinking a lot of wine every night and waking up every day wondering what exactly my purpose was in life.
The pandemic offered a weird reprieve when I went back to focusing on the care and keeping of my four kids who were back living under my roof. I made dinner menus for the week and elaborate grain bowl lunches and even rejoined Costco for giant bi-weekly hauls. I worried about everyone’s mental state and probably added to the house anxiety level with my own stuff while I simultaneously wished they’d all just leave and that I could take care of them forever.
But slowly, they did begin to leave until later this spring, it was just me and an 18-year-old boy, who never really needed much in the first place. We joke that the youngest was raised by wolves and one Christmas, even gave him a t-shirt that said as much. While I ran around and put out all sorts of fires his three older siblings found themselves in over the years, he taught himself how to ride a bike and tie his own shoelaces and drifted around our old neighborhood climbing high up in trees and jumping on a neighbors’ trampoline for hours. And somehow, he turned out okay.
But the one thing he’s gotten from me that the other kids did not was a sober mom. At least for his last 10 months before leaving for college. I’m glad that I could really be present for him over this last year instead of foggy from wine or its aftereffects. Even though he spends most of his time trying not to get into big conversations with me, I’m glad that when my son does want to talk about something, I am 100% there for it. I’m glad he knows that someone is always on duty.
***
Unlike the crew of the Poseidon, I have managed a course correction to – at least for now – avoid being capsized. For now, I will not have to hold my breath Shelley Winters-style to swim to safety only to expire at the end (even though every time I watch that movie I'm holding my own breath that the outcome will be different).
Who knows how I’ll feel when I pull into my driveway next week. I never really know until it happens. It was only after I got home from court on the hot July day my divorce was finalized that I was able to cry. I sat in my car for a long time with the AC running and cried for us all. And when I pulled into the driveway after my third child’s college graduation, I pounded on my wheel and screamed with joy that I’d launched three kids out into the world.
One thing I do know is that returning home to an empty house will be the first page in a whole new chapter of the book that is my life’s story. The only thing I know for sure right now is what the first four words will read: She chose to swim.
xoAmy
SUNDAY SHARES: Read, watch, cook, buy
It's been a minute since I've done this, which means that I have fallen in and out of love with a ton of things over the last month. In that time I have been reading a TON, watching very little tv and cooking absolutely nothing. My son has been eating like an almost-55-year-old-woman in the days leading up to his college departure and for that I am truly sorry.
I finished reading Christie Tate's lovely memoir "Group: How One Therapist and a Circle of Strangers Saved My Life," and started to cry. I absolutely loved it. My 24yo read it next and told me she cried throughout a lot of it. It's so sweet and lovely and gives me a lot of hope. She's also lovely on Instagram if you're looking for someone new to follow.
I also finished the novel "The Paper Palace" in like, no time. The protagonist is almost exactly my age and the whole book was so evocative of my own coming of age experiences. I just loved it.
Guys, I took advantage of Lake's annual sale and bought myself a new set of pj's and a bathrobe, that arrived on Friday and have only taken off to visit my dad yesterday. Insanely soft, even after washing (if that ever happens).
As an aside, can someone send me their recipes for the following things I can never get right: pots of coffee/french press (too strong, too weak), smoothies (gloppy + frozen), scrambled eggs (not fluffy), stir fry (soggy + not browned). Best wishes + warm regards.