TiVo Lady

The Next Boomer Step . . .

For many parents, the logical next step, after children leave home, is to move.  Get rid of the energy-sucking, tax-draining, grass-growing suburban millstone of a home and move on.  After the children graduate from college, some say, they give up the right to have their own rooms.  It's no longer their room;  it's our room.  I didn't cover this topic in Beyond the Mommy Years, which is a fairly comprehensive look at life for moms after the kids leave home, because I didn't really know what to say.  Also, I'd feel like a hypocrite.  After all, RioGringa's room is just the way she left it after she flew off to Brazil a year ago, except for the massive cleaning-crap-off-of-surfaces I did the day after she departed.  All of her stuff is in there, and there is a lot of stuff.  Now that she's coming home for a while, she needs that room.  Engineer Boy's room, too, is just the way he left it.  Actually, he hasn't left it at all:  he's in there, sleeping, right now, until he goes back to Boston for a ten-week summer job.  But then he needs to come back to his room until school starts again.

All this is to say that my children's rooms are still their rooms, even though they are no longer children.

How long do we enshrine these spaces, and sacrifice our comfort to their occasional occupancy?  Um, I really don't know.  I'd love to move to a smaller space, with lower taxes, and a really nice kitchen, one that has spiffy counters and fancy appliances.  In my adult life, I've lived in two New York City apartments, small and minimal, and this house.  I've never had a really nice kitchen, with fancy granite counters and polished steel sinks.  What I did have, was imitation butcher block counters that were already dated in the 1980's when we moved in.  And shabby cabinets with rickety drawers.

But I don't think I'd move just to get a better kitchen.  Also, here's the real reason we'd have so much trouble moving.  It's this.  Here's a picture of a place just minutes away from our house.  It's right here, this;  but so is New York City, only forty minutes away by train.  I used to run--now walk--in here at least three or four times a week.  It will be really, really, really, really hard for me to give this up.  Also, there's this.  Same place:  very fancy Rockefeller cows.  I love them.

So, I guess as long as I can navigate on my own two feet, in here, three minutes from my house, my children will be able to keep their enshrined bedrooms.  Or until we win the Lottery and buy a house right on the ocean....

Double Sad, When the Kids Leave

When the kids leave for college, we miss them, of course.  We no longer get to hear them complain about their teachers or about us.  We don't have to lend them the car.  We don't have to chauffeur them around and have those intense, 15-minute drive-by talks.  This is the first, and most obvious, source of our discontent when the children leave.  As I've written about, extensively--over-extensively?--in BEYOND THE MOMMY YEARS, my book about what happens to mothers when the children leave home.

But there's another, much less-spoken about source of sadness when the kids leave.  Hardly anybody ever mentions it.  That's because it's a  bit embarrassing to admit.  So, I'll be the first to confess it, right here:

We send our children off into the world, and to college, with more than a little bit of jealousy in our hearts.  How great would it be, we think, to be the one leaving home and starting off in life?  (Again.)  How great would it be to know what we know now, and to have a second chance at being young?  How much would you give for such a chance?  A million bucks?  (If I had it, I'd give it!)  That's why I absolutely adore the movie Peggy Sue Got Married, in which Boomer actress Kathleen Turner (born in 1954) plays middle-aged Peggy Sue, who gets to go back to high school, only with everything she knows stored in her brain! 

That's my dream--only I'd choose to return to college, since high school was mostly an utter waste of time.  Also, college was a lot more fun.

Anyway, it's difficult to watch our children get to do all of that--without us, no less!--while the only thing we get to do is pay the bills.  And don't you wonder, every so often, if they really are appreciating it enough?  Enjoying it enough?  Relishing it enough?  Because you're the one who knows that life doesn't get much easier or better or more fun than the years in which all you have to do is meet new friends, take classes from random professors, hang out on weekends, and pretend that life is difficult and oh so meaningful.

Hey, I could do that again!  In a flash...

Setting Boundaries

Where is that line, that vital but invisible line, that divides our children's dependent childhood from their independent adulthood?  Is there even such a line?  Or will our children always be, well, our children??

Clearly, the line is not apparent during the College Years, a time when many offspring seem to expect that life at home should go on exactly as it was when they were in high school.  So their time at home is full of Great Expectations:  for getting the car, whenever;  for sleeping until, whenever;  for going out, wherever;  for having laundry done, by whomever;  for not doing dishes or making beds or walking dogs, anyever.

During these years, and even after, it's difficult to figure out how much help and support and financial aid to offer children.  Do you help out with medical expenses?  How about health care coverage?  Do you subsidize their living costs?  Do you pay for their vacations?  Do you pay for Propecia, since you were  the one who donated that early-onset balding gene?  (I couldn't make this up--one of the mothers I interviewed pays for the treatment for her two sons, both of whom are thinning on top and not yet 30 years old.)

I discuss these issues in my book, BEYOND THE MOMMY YEARS, but I'm still confused about setting boundaries for my own offspring.  Spawn.  Legacy.  (Whatever.)  Do I take charge of the medical mystery of my son's chronic headaches?  Do I offer to pay for my daughter to join a gym in Rio, or to take ballet lessons, because it will make her happy?  Do I step up?  Or do I stand down, with the view that my job is done.  (Insert wiping-of-hands gesture here.)  Now, it's their turn to learn to take care of themselves.  Oddly, I want to do both, though they seem mutually exclusive.

Good news in TiVoland!  The guilty pleasure of The L Word is back on Showtime... (A deeply-engaging soap opera about attractive lesbians, starring great Boomer divas, like Cybill Shepherd (born in 1950) and Jennifer Beals (born in 1963) and Pam Grier (born in 1949) and Marlee Matlin (almost, born in 1965).

And Friday Night Lights is back!  Watch it here.

Are We Boring?

The very first thing you notice after all the children leave home is the quiet.  It's noiseless in your house--no matter how many yippy, barking dogs you may have.  (Like me:  just one.)  Children are  almost always accompanied by their noise and hubbub and complications and dramas and brouhaha.  They are their own three-ring (seven-ring?) circus wherever they go.  Once they're gone, all of that elaborate, vivacious circus-like entertainment vanishes.

I am thinking about this as I'm anticipating the return of my son from college:  with him comes messiness and music and phone calls and appointments and stuff happening all day long.  Well, more like all night long.  But what does that say about us, the ones he left behind?  Are our lives so circumspect, so bland, so boring, that any kind of activity, by comparison, seems exciting?

Are we really that boring?  So boring that a dog's bark brightens up our entire morning, day, week???

Yikes, I hope not. 

On the other hand, it's much more exciting to be younger and stronger and healthier than older, weaker, and unhealthy.  I don't think I'd want to be, say, 22 again.  But I would love, love, love, to be 22 again, just for a day.  Any takers????

Empty Nest Limbo Time

Real Life Interlude... and BEYOND THE MOMMY YEARS material...

This is an odd time of year, especially for new Empty Nesters, and those of us with college-aged children.  Most of us have had the pleasure of at least one child's company during Thanksgiving;  three or five days of watching him/her sleep and eat, eat and sleep, cell talk and IM, and sleep and eat.  They're out of the house again, now, but not for long.  In fact, most of them will be returning--like the full moon--in two or three weeks, in a flash, really, only this time for a lot longer.  I remember when my son, the youngest, left home for the first time, and I consoled myself in early December that I would see him again soon.  Really soon.  December flew by, as I eagerly anticipated his return.

But now, well, I'm still eager, but that desperate yearning is gone.  I really enjoy his company, but.  There are a few "buts," including the Major Food Purchasing involved, as well as the Major Meal Preparation, both of which I have eased out of lately.  But Son demands hot meals, exotic liquid refreshment, and a fully-stocked larder, even if he has no intention of even making a slight dent into it.

Are you on tenterhooks until your babies come home for winter break?  Or is your happy anticipation edged with, uh, mixed feelings?  It's wonderful that they're home for the holidays, but then... they're home and they're home and they're still, home.

Okay, I know.  It's a time of year to Count Our Blessings.  As long as we have:  our health, our sanity, and each other, none of the rest really matters.  And on just one of those nights, when you have all of your children sleeping under your roof again, well, that's a sweet, sweet feeling.  Enjoy it.

I wish my Rio Gringa were sleeping under my roof in December, but alas, she's not.  Even better, I wish we were all sleeping under her roof, down there, south of the equator, where we could have a very Hot, Suntanned, beachy-holiday!

The Real Meaning of "Sandwich Generation"

We all know what the term "sandwich generation" usually means:  it's being a Boomer, and having to take care of almost-grown children while also taking on some responsibility for aging-parent care.  We're the baloney caught in the middle.  This is only if we're fortunate enough to have still-living parents, of course.  Please note that this photograph is a piece of art, titled "Baloney Sandwich."

But I just thought of another meaning of that somewhat-annoying expression.  We're the ones making the sandwiches:  Thanksgiving is approaching, and we're the generation doing the cooking.  It's our turn.  Our almost-grown children are rarely in a position to: 1. be able to cook for a crowd, or 2. to have a large enough kitchen or 3. to know how to cook at all or 4. to want to cook or 5. to live close enough to be able to host.  Or all of the above.  And our parents, mostly, are beyond the Should-Cook Age;  they've done their part, it's now way beyond the call of duty for a 70- or 75-year-old grandma and/or grandpa to host and cook a large meal for a large, or even medium-sized, family.  (With some notable exceptions, including a friend of my mine, who is going to her 80-something-year-old parent's home for is Thanksgiving.  Her rationale, perfectly logical, too:  "My mom is a really good cook!")

All this is to say that I realize it's only Monday, but I have already baked (and frozen) most of the desserts I'm serving for Thanksgiving, and I'm only slightly embarrassed to confess this:  My table is already set.  See, I'm having 14 people for dinner--a personal record--and my dining room table only holds 10.  So I had to borrow a home-made table adapter, three giant pieces of wood that fit together over the table top to make the surface longer and wider.  And wobblier, I might add.  (Note to Guests:  Do NOT Lean on the ends of this makeshift table, or the whole thing will flip over!)  I schlepped the wooden pieces, went out to buy a gigantic tablecloth (since my table is a completely different size), and put the whole thing together to make sure it would work.  Then, I had to get the Royal Doulton china out of the attic--my mother-in-law left it to my daughter, but she's living in Rio for a year, has never cooked a turkey in her life, and probably won't need Way-Expensive, Slightly Outdated Tableware for at least another 10 years. Because the china has been in storage for, I don't know, maybe 10 years? or maybe 30, I had to put all of it in the dishwasher, just to get the germs and various cooties off.  And I had to finish all of this before I have to begin the actual cooking.  Which is an entirely separate discussion.

Anyway, I am a Sandwich Generation-er.  Or something.

The Not-So-Empty Thanksgiving Nest: Ack!!

It is the time of year in which all of those wandering children--the ones in college, the ones who work, the ones who are 'taking time off,' whatever--many are making their way home this week or next.  (Not that my daughter is one of them:  she's in Rio de Janeiro, and she won't be home at all.  But that's another story for another time.)

Believe it or not, this year the largest number of American kids ever left home for college:  8.3 million of them, according to the National Center for Education Statistics.  This means that record numbers of smart-alecky, sleep-deprived, cell-phone addicted child/adults will be sleeping in your house all day long.  Like it's the Day of the Dead, or like extras in some bad vampire movie, minus the caskets.  It means that you will have to get used to having a nearly-full house, just when you were getting used to walking around in your underwear, eating leftovers three nights in a row, and going to the movies whenever you feel like it.

We all know, of course, Thanksgiving and Christmas, the so-called happiest of holidays, is a time that mothers yearn for and expect perfection.  What they get, though, can also be the most stressful and tense and just plain terrible family get-togethers ever.  It's Hell With Stuffing and Gravy.

Don't get me wrong:  we miss them, we long to see them, we're happy to have them home.  It's just, that, well, while we're expecting our almost-adult children to help with the dishes and to be grateful for the financial support we provide, and maybe even to socialize with us occasionally, they're not with that program.  They are, instead:  instant messaging their friends, cell phoning their friends, emailing their friends, driving our car and visiting their old friends, hanging out at the mall/town/woods or wherever  they used to go.  They show up for meals and relatives and to sleep, but they're pretty much acting as if Our Home is Their Home, and we're just the annoying tenants who pay the rent.

What to do?  If you don't want to feel like this fellow, right here, then I've got some ideas.

1. Set New Rules:  When almost-adults return home, they expect their lives to revert back to senior year in high school.  If parents prefer not to relive the past, they’ll need to make firm guidelines about car borrowing, curfews, computer usage, and drinking habits, as well as about doing laundry, cleaning up the kitchen, and any other chores that need to be done.  You don’t need to go so far as one mom I know, who posted a sign on the refrigerator at Thanksgiving for her two college-age daughters that read, “House Rules for Guests,” but you do need to set limits.

2. Don’t Forget You:  If you’ve changed your habits, and joined a gym, say, or started a book club, don’t stop going while the children are home.  Instead, let them see that you’ve created your own new life, that you have interests and hobbies that you enjoy. 

3. Remember Who’s in Charge:  My research shows that 60 percent of mothers are Thrivers after children leave, who say they have more control over their lives;  20 percent are Survivors, who have the same level of control;  20 percent are Stuck and Out of Luck, with less control.  Parents have to remember that they are the ones in control of their own lives, even when that gets complicated by children’s return.

Oh, by the way, Happy Thanksgiving.

Pontificating/Hypocrisy

I couldn't write yesterday, because I was in too deep a funk.  Fifty feet down.  Maybe a hundred.

See, while I'm pontificating on Radio and Television about how great it is for moms when the children leave home, I'm actually really missing my daughter.  She's living in Rio for a year--that's the one in Brazil--and I haven't seen her since June, and won't catch an in-person glimpse of her until the very end of February.  I just really miss her.  And I find myself resenting friends who see their nearly-grown daughters whenever they want.  And I get teary if I see a mother arguing with a teenage daughter:  that used to be us!!  I'm feeling as gloomy as this view from my office.  And as weird as that odd reflection of the camera, smack dab in the middle of the image.

This is why I'm a hypocrite:  I can't seem to practice what I preach. . . .

I even got teary while watching the wonderful Friday Night Lights this week.  I raved about this show from the start, long before the actual, accredited critics did so.  But this scene, from "How Did I Get Here?" really put me over the tears-in-the-eyes limit.  Tami Taylor, wife of football coach Kyle Chandler, and mother of the lovely and ever-more-troublesome Julie Taylor, is complaining to her sister about the new baby girl she's just had.  (She's been dancing around the edges of postpartum depression ever since she gave birth, but seems to have been cured, now that her husband is living at home again.)

Tami:  "I've got a whole 16 years plus ahead of me of child rearing, and then she's gonna turn into Julie and be mean to me and I'm gonna be in a walker.."  (starting to laugh and sob, simultaneously)

Exactly.  But I still miss it anyway.  Call the Waaah-mbulance.

An Empty Nest Detour

In honor of my continuing embarrassment, I can't discuss any Real Life issues today.  Instead, I'd like to take a detour to a seriously-important Empty Nest issue drawn from my book, BEYOND THE MOMMY YEARS.  A lovely talk show host was skimming through my book recently, and commented on the chapter about menopause.  She was fascinated by the page I'd written, titled "Seven Weird But True Menopause Facts."  We never actually got the chance to discuss the points, but if we had, I'd have summarized the following info.  (Well, I would have if I could have recalled it.)  If you'd like to read about this in much richer and juicier detail, you'll have to actually buy my book!

1. In China, Menopausal Women Don’t Sweat, They Ache.  In Singapore, where women begin menopause at the age of 49, only four percent have hot flashes, but more than half say they have “muscle and joint aches.”
2. In Japan, Menopausal Women are Chilly. Menopausal Japanese women don’t get hot flashes or night sweats, either.  Instead, six in 10 complain of “shoulder stiffness,” four in 10 have memory loss or stress, and three in ten complain of “chilliness.”

3. In India, Menopausal Women Can’t See.  When women in Chandigar, India go through menopause, only 17 percent complain about hot flushes, but a majority say that they can’t see clearly.

4. In Turkey, Being Pale Encourages Menopause.  Turkish women who don’t get a lot of sun start menopause earlier than the average national age of 52, as do those who engage in heavy physical activity.

5. In Denmark, It’s a Good Thing.  The Danish word for menopause means “the transitional phase,” a time when women feel they can, finally, speak their minds, and feel more experienced and competent and free.

6. In Germany, Vegetarians Begin Menopause Sooner.  A study of women living in Heidelberg shows that diet influences the onset of menopause.  Vegetarians hit the change sooner, but women who eat a diet especially high in fats postpone menopause.

7. You Can’t Say Menopause in Mayan.  In the Q-eqchi tribe of Guatemala, there is no word at all for menopause, other than one that means “no washing,” since the women no longer need to be purified while they are menstruating.  Also, women are rarely told about menopause until it happens, because the whole topic is taboo.  If middle-aged tribal women happen to complain about vaginal dryness or having no interest in sex, their husbands assume they have been unfaithful.

Sorry about the weird quality of this photograph, but the illustration, by the wonderful artist Adrienne Hartman, looks much better in my actual book!

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