I-70 WEST AND BEYOND

Moms are carriers.  Plain and simple.  I suppose it was my restricted carrying the past month due to a shoulder injury that has me thinking along these lines.  For nine months, we carry in our expanding belly an expectation of something we can’t possible begin to understand until we’re able to hold it in our arms for the first time and then we don’t want to let go.  We carry babies until they’re toddlers and when they discover their independence and no longer want to be carried, we carry their things.  We carry toys that should have been left at home in the first place and mutter  “I told you sos” under our breath, while more unwanted “had to bring it” things are piled onto our already full arms.  When my middle child, Grant, was born, he spent the first 4 months of his life unhappy unless he was being carried.  The words, “Can you carry Grant?” were heard so often during those first 4 months that Grant’s other name became “Cary” Grant, quite by default.  Anyone slightly younger than me had no idea why we  found his name to be so clever.  And carry him, I/we did…. in a front pack, on a hip, over a shoulder or in the crook of an arm.  That same baby, many years later, while playing competitive baseball in middle school, had a coach who would tell the team as they were gathering up the equipment post game,

“Catchers don’t carry.”

I loved that sliver of recognition that the catcher would get for having spent the past few hours in a squatted position looking through a hot mask.  He should get a pass.  In fact, more than once I felt like the team should not only carry the equipment, but the catcher as well.  A few times, when I’ve been in a situation with Grant when I didn’t feel like I should have to carry something,  we’ve locked glances and he’ll take the words right out of my mouth before I even have a chance to utter them.

“Catchers don’t carry.”

He gets it.  My child who wanted to be carried for a solid 4 months can appreciate that sometimes the person who’s expected to shoulder the heavy load, simply needs a break.

I’ve often wondered what would happen if just once a rule of “Moms don’t carry” would be thrown out there?  (and not just on Mother’s Day…)  Would there be piles of half eaten bags of popcorn, still sealed water bottles, souvenir caps and worthless trinkets piled up at the exit of every amusement park because there wouldn’t be a mom to schlep them to the car?  Would stuffed animals, shoes that fell off of tiny feet and were easier to carry rather than put back on again, and the stray jacket be left behind on empty chairs in restaurants?   Or more likely, would the moms swoop in in exasperation and like any good pack animal,  load up the gear with a sigh and a “never mind” and continue on?  Maybe we do it because it’s important to us.  Maybe we know that a handful of stale popcorn will save the day 20 minutes into a ride home with grumpy and tired kids.  Maybe we know that we’ll be the ones that will suffer the consequences if all of our options are left behind in piles when exiting.

When my 3rd child, Emery, was born, the kids outnumbered  the arms, which I hadn’t really considered until my maiden voyage outside of the house with all three in tow.  My sister, Robin, said it reminded her of the guy that was on the Ed Sullivan show who would balance 3 plates in the air with two long sticks.  With the plates outnumbering the sticks holding them up, there was always a vulnerable one that had you holding your breath.  I think that same guy showed up every week on the show, and still, we watched with bated breath (entertainment was simple, times were different…).  I would think about that man on the Ed Sullivan stage a lot while I juggled 3 kids and their stuff – maintaining the balance of keeping all 3 “plates” in the air at once, always with an eye out for the vulnerable one.   I know I speak for other moms when I say that there was a little bit of “bring it on… I’ve got this” going on, maybe because there was an odd desire to see how much I actually could do or carry or manage before the delicately stacked tower would tumble.  It was always far more than I had predicted, by the way…

When kids had big enough arms to hold their own stuff, the rule was always “If you want to bring it, you carry it.”  The unwritten rule that seemed to go along with that, or at least as far as the kids were concerned, was, “Bring it.  Mom will end up carrying it.”  And sadly, she did.  Rules regarding carrying seemed to be regarded as mere suggestions, and I take total blame for that one.

All of the carrying becomes normal and any mother of young children will tell you that when their arms aren’t overflowing with babies, car seats, strollers or stuffed lovies, something feels wrong… almost like you have forgotten to put your second shoe on.  I marvel now at the strength and balance I had when I was able to remove and open a heavy double stroller from the back of the car with one hand,  while holding a crying baby and trying to keep a physical touch on his rambunctious older brother with any part of my body that was available.  Never again will I have the strong, chiseled arms I had then that sadly went unnoticed, simply because they were a side effect, not a goal, and something that I had no time to give importance to.  Even lifting weights 3 times a week with a personal trainer not that long ago couldn’t bring them back to their glory days. Funny how things work.

As much as I juggled, schlepped and complained, the day came when I realized that my arms were swinging back and forth as I walked…back and forth and strangely empty.  It felt surprisingly freeing, yet not quite normal and with that lingering sense of having forgotten something. Holding my kids and their belongings gave me a sense of control and security and comfort as all I had to do was look down and it would all be right there – right there in my tired, but contently filled arms.  When the babies, the toddlers, the crying children and the armloads of stuff no longer needed to be carried was when the real heavy lifting began.  This was the part that no one told me about.  This was the part that even the well-toned and strong arms wouldn’t be able to help me with.  This was the part when my arms set down the physical loads and my heart stepped in to carry the load.

In our ever-expanding hearts, we hold the hopes, the tears, the joys, the fears, the desires and every memory, both the good ones and the not so good ones.  Unlike our limited arms, our hearts are limitless and seem to expand with ease in order to make room for more memories, more touching moments, more feelings that you want to hold close.  I’ve come to realize, after so many times of saying goodbye to my children, to honor, respect and hold tight to what I no longer can carry in my  arms, but now hold in my heart and although it’s not a load that can be felt physically, its presence is as present as my breath, my pulse, my being.

I’ve been reminded twice in the past month, while carrying the boxed belongings of 2 of my kids and their spouses, that the carrying doesn’t ever truly end, it just changes.   Although most of the load carried since my children reached adulthood, has not been carried in cardboard boxes, but rather,  in my heart, there are still times that I get to re-flex my carrying muscles and honestly, it feels nostalgically wonderful.  But kids,  6 times in 3 years is enough!  Any more than that, and I’ll have to enforce my “catchers don’t carry” rule (which you’ll wisely read as “don’t worry, she’ll still help us move our stuff”…).  You know me well.  Of course I will.

Carrying all of them… in my heart…

As much as I love a spontaneous change of plans, a slip in the mud and a bum shoulder to follow felt too much like a road trip getting canceled while literally sitting in your packed car, backed into the driveway and ready to go.  My first thought while trying to maneuver my way out of the mud, and the thought that seemed to predispose all others for the next several days, was what was my summer was NOW going to look like now that I had injured myself; an injury that would likely result in handing over some of my independence in the months ahead. THIS was certainly not what I had planned.  This was my first summer of owning a mountain place and I had visions of staying there most of the summer, with a few trips back to Kansas for some scheduled commitments and a whole lot of garden watering. What I didn’t count on was a few helpless weeks of mainlining “Breaking Bad,” (which by they way I finished and am still having dreams about drug lords and blue ice…), wearing the same shirt day after day after day and asking anyone close by to please put my hair up in a pony tail.  Life happens and plans change and it’s not all bad…. it can even be a good thing.

One of my friends and blog follower, LaMont Eanes,  commented on one of my original “Oh poor me, I fell in the mud and broke my shoulder” posts and said,

“All experiences are good, although they may not feel like it at the time.”

Thank you for that, LaMont.  With those words in mind, I suppose you could say I’ve been searching high and low for the silver lining that I was just sure was hiding somewhere under my now fading bruises.  I’ve discovered, yet again,  if I just let go, of both the search and the expectation, that the little gem of a silver lining will somehow find you but it helps if you’re keeping an eye out for it.  Watchful eye or not, I’m simply not a very patient patient.

Yesterday, while on an urban walk with Thomas and Brooke, that silver lining was so big that I had to exercise caution not trip over it (I’m much more thoughtful with my gait these days…).  I was spending the day with Thomas and Brooke,  which was a gift in itself and something I’ve only enjoyed on my visits to Portland the past 3 years or for the brief and scheduled moments over Christmas.  A few months ago, they made the decision to move back to Kansas after Thomas’ law school graduation in Portland.  A little over a week ago, the two weary travelers and their travel tired kitties landed on my door step in the middle of the night after 37 hours of traveling.  They are staying with me until they find their own space in the city, which sadly and selfishly for me has already happened and moving day is right around the corner.  Emery and Miles had made their move out of Kansas a short 2 weeks ago and still feeling their absence, I was thrilled with the idea of refilling of my now conspicuously large nest.

I knew of these relocation plans before I took my shoulder dip into the mud and had made my own plans around them.  I’d return from CO after getting Emery and Miles settled in, get Thomas and Brooke settled into my house, and would high tail it back to CO as soon as it felt right, where I’d await their visit to see me in the mountains.  That was the plan and from where I was sitting at the time, it sounded pretty good.  But life happens and plans change and I’m learning, albeit slowly, that it’s a whole lot easier to roll with it and see what it has to offer rather than wasting time bemoaning the fact that the plans got changed in the first place.  One would think I would have mastered this lesson by now given my many aborted plans that have magically given way to decisions that have given me some of my greatest joys in life  Case in point, my purchasing a mountain home when last summer’s mountain plans fell apart.

For the past week or so, I’ve gotten to simply hang with my son and his wife, without the rush that holiday visits always bring.  I’ve been able to sit on my porch every morning in my jammies and drink coffee with Brooke and talk or not talk, but always appreciative of the company.   I’m blessed.  I’ve also been able to, by necessity, let Brooke cook for me, clean for me and remind me to take it easy, go lay down and can I get you anything?  If that isn’t a little piece of heaven, I’m not sure what is.  Again, I’m blessed beyond words at the nurturing she’s given me… an ongoing hug with a spoonful of love. What an unplanned joy having them both in my house has brought me and with a duration that’s long enough that we’ve got the time to do all sorts of things or do nothing at all… both good choices.

My broken shoulder has kept me in Kansas as I’m not able to grip a steering wheel with two hands yet, and those I-70 winds around Russell, KS are near impossible to maneuver one-handed.  I’m beginning to see the terrible timing of all of this as the universe’s impeccable and perfect timing  and a gift to me that presented itself in the nontraditional wrappings of a navy blue cloth sling that currently supports my arm.  You are so right, Lamont, it is all good, although it didn’t necessarily feel like it at the time.  I’m also convinced that good cooking, a lot of nurturing and a very full heart are integral to the healing of a broken shoulder, or a broken anything for that matter.

Screened in porch time…

Kansas City urban walk about with these two…

These two in my kitchen… it just feels right.

Homemade tortilla soup… good for the soul… and the shoulder…

The one thing I haven’t done since my return to Kansas a week ago, is to go see my daughter, Emery, and simply hang with her and catch up, face to face.  I know.  She doesn’t live here anymore.  I should know that.  I helped box up belongings and distributed them to Good Will, my basement, and a moving truck parked in their driveway on I swear the hottest, most humid day that Kansas has ever seen in May.  The remaining items were then stuffed into my car and driven to Ft. Collins, CO, where I then helped unload, unpack and empty the contents into cupboards, shelves and closets.  I know which drawer her orange-handled carrot peeler is in, but keep forgetting that she and her husband, Miles have moved.

On the Colorado side of the 657 mile journey…

In order to understand where I am now, I feel like I have to back up several years to when I first was divorced.  My son, Grant, was a senior year in high school and my daughter, Emery, a freshman. My oldest son, Thomas, was already in college.  Although Grant was a part of my transition,  it was after that first year when I was no longer coasting on the affects of adrenalin and making up my life a day at a time, when the real work began.  It was with Emery that I truly cut my teeth of independence and began to figure out exactly who I was and what I was supposed to be doing.  I had already done what I thought was the hardest part, but would later learn that it wasn’t the jumping off the proverbial cliff that was the hardest part, but rather, my anticipation of growing the wings I would need for a safe landing. That’s what kept me up at night.  Selfishly, I was grateful to not have to be alone when I had to go through the crises that seemed to come with regularity, including an exploding water pump in the basement and the bird’s nest in the porch light that caught fire from the heat of the bulb on a windy night, ending in a 911 call.  Although we were both treading in new waters and had no idea what we were doing, we had each other and not knowing feels a whole lot better when you have someone sitting next to you. Emery showed me what grace under fire looked like and unbeknownst to her, I’m sure, became my teacher….she and Lorelei Gilmore, that is, the leading role from the TV show “The Gilmore Girls”.

Emery and I loved the Gilmore Girls and would tune in whenever it was on.  It was entertainment for Emery, but far more for me.  I tuned in to learn how to be a divorced Mom to a teen-aged girl.  Lorelei Gilmore helped me find the confidence I needed to maneuver my way in this new role and as odd as it may sound to put such stock in a TV character, also made me feel not so alone in this new place. We (my television mom friend, Lorelei, and I) were on the same time schedule, with daughters who would be flying the nest at the same time.  I watched with anticipation, excitement and a deep seated sadness as we both seemed to be marking days at the same time and with the same speed.  I’ve got to think that Emery knew this as we sat next to each other on the couch every Sunday night and tuned in.  Even now, several years later, I am often touched to tears when I hear Carol King’s song, “Where You Lead” (the show’s lead in song) because of the many memories it conjures up.  I knew what was going to happen in the show because it was inevitable.  The daughter goes to college.  She leaves.

In the spring of Emery’s junior year, we got to enjoy several weeks of actually watching the process of  “flying the nest,” when a pair of cardinals nested in a tree right outside our kitchen window. Not even the Gilmore girls witnessed the incredible course of events that unfolded in the weeks to come (that we knew of…), although we both agreed it would have been a great story line for the show.  We went from watching mom sitting on the eggs, to seeing the babies peck their way out of the tiny shells then watched as dad would forage for food and bring it back to the mom, who would then feed her babies.  We were both awed by the beauty of watching the two birds turn into a family and the roles that all seemed so familiar to us. We watched from our own perch on the kitchen floor, all hunched down below the window sill and barely breathing, so as not to frighten them.  It became our TV and for me,  another role model to learn from.

We followed them, felt connected to them and I learned from them.  It wasn’t long before we watched the papa bird begin to teach the babies how to fly by flying to a nearby branch then would look back to the nest of baby birds and whistle.  We translated the whistle to,  “watch me and then do what I do.”  And eventually, they did.  Emery and I both beamed with maternal joy as we watched what were only eggs in a nest a few weeks ago, grow up, find their independence and make their maiden flight over to a nearby branch.  We witnessed as they practiced the short flight over and over again, always with a safe return to the comforts of the nest and mom.  A few days later, the babies had all flown the nest and we assumed were filled with the excitement of having their own places.  Emery and I had a high school graduation to attend and made one last look at the nest before leaving the house, now empty of its babies. Something seemed very poignant about the sequence of events given the timing of our leaving for a high school graduation.  I had been witnessing my own reality of a soon to be empty nest in the truest sense of the word.  Could a metaphor ever again be this spot on? If she hadn’t been a bird, I would have enjoyed a coffee and a chat with her, about that empty nest and all.  Did it feel too big now?  Is it lonely?  When we got home a few hours later, we were surprised by our discovery.  Lo and behold, all the babies had returned home from their various homes on branches in nearby trees.  I couldn’t help but smile, and felt a huge sense of relief for their mama.

It’s not a very clear photo, but we were being very thoughtful with our presence while watching from the kitchen window as we didn’t want to scare the protective mother.

I couldn’t help but think about that series of events with the family of cardinals while on the road to Ft. Collins in my overly loaded car.  Whether it was 657 miles down I-70 or from one tree to the next in my back yard, it was all the very same thing from the viewpoint of a mom….leaving the nest, the town, the state.  While I followed Emery’s car for every one of those 657 miles, I thought about the last time I had followed her on the highway, both of us with overloaded cars, when I moved her into her dorm at the University of Kansas.  I worried about her and how she’d do with this next big transition.  Or so I told myself… I was really worried about me and how I would handle this next big transition.  There was comfort, both times, in being able to take refuge in the comfort of being alone in my car.  I could cry.

Again, I followed my daughter down the highway as she tested her wings – this time with Miles

I’m certainly not expecting Emery to land back in my nest, but I know I’ve given her an internal compass that will always point her home.  Actually, I gave all 3 of my kids a small box for their graduation from high school that contained among other symbolic items, a compass that would always point them home.  When I was typing the letter that went into the box for Emery, just as I had done for her brothers, I envisioned her home as always being where I was and where she had come from, as that was the only reference I knew at the time.  Now I realize that the compass, although orientated to “home,” was now pointing her to the mountains of Colorado, where she has found her next home with her husband, Miles.  Still, she will always carry with her the internal compass that will always point her home – whether that’s to an actual physical location or to a feeling she carries in her heart.

My heart has stretched, yet again, across the 657 mile stretch of I-70 from Leawood, Kansas to Ft. Collins, Colorado, and although I can’t say I don’t feel sad at times, I’m with a very full heart that knows that although as parents we strive to give our children both wings and roots, it is in their flying that they will truly learn about life. As you fly, Emery, I learn, and in the process, we both grow.

Wings that took us to Perú…wings that would later take you there again…without me.

And to you,  Emery, you will not have an easier house guest.  I know where everything in your kitchen is as I put it there.  Second drawer to the right of the stove for the orange-handled carrot peeler…