by David James
The Spawn will set their reproductive itinerary at their own pace. It is not something I need to stick my pointy nose into. The potential for disaster looms large if a person is nagged into breeding before they are prepared, whether by a parent, society, or even a spouse. If one of our babies feels the time is right to reproduce, I’ll be right there with helpful hints on nausea, mood swings, vomit stain elimination, and the like.
Until then, I’ll be glad to have them all to myself.
I slipped into the kitchen to steer clear of the whole mother-daughter grandchildren conversation. It’s just none of my business. If they want advice on almost any subject, I am more than happy to blather on at great length, leaving no option unexplored in a valiant effort to impart my vast repository of wisdom and experience to my beloved offspring. But their personal lives? I am not about to dive into that pool.
Honestly, I was also afraid I might incriminate myself by admitting that I would love to have grandchildren. I am drool-resistant, I attract dirt, I love to wallow, and I don’t mind eating things off of the ground. Oh, and sometimes I need changing. We would be peas in a pod. No wonder Veronica doesn’t feel a strong need for a grandbaby. When the girls brought it up she should have just said, “Who needs grandchildren? I’ve got your father.”
So when, or I guess if, our grandparenting time comes, I’ll fit right in with the next generation. That’s not to say that I would ever push our kids toward procreation; I am a firm believer in letting our adult children live their own lives. But I will be one ecstatic pappy should the time ever come.
I can’t help thinking how fun it would be to have some new little rug rats running ’round. Sofa cushion forts to be constructed, trashcan lid sled races to run, rockets to launch, and old lawnmower/tricycle/roller-skate/beanbag-chair vehicles to be made. Maybe even a mad, mud-filled attempt at tunneling under the neighbor’s house. Oh wait, that was my childhood. So what, we can relive it all with nothing more than a sack lunch and a big idea.
And there is that one huge advantage to grandchildren, the icing on the face—I mean, cake. They go home at some point. Then Veronica and I can go on with our GypsyNesting lives. All of the fun without all that pesky responsibility. Even better, since we’ve sold the nest, when the grape juice–filled sippy cup does a slo-mo two-and-a-half gainer with a lid-releasing twist across the room, we will be spectators from the visiting team. I’ll give it an 8.5 with wild applause. We will be able to truly appreciate the talents of our progeny.
That peanut butter and jelly face print on the hall closet door? Nice likeness.
The terrarium complete with amphibian wildlife in the bathtub? Educational.
The chemistry/cooking experiment involving chocolate pudding, Cheerios, a two-liter bottle of Diet Pepsi, bag of frozen peas, and the blender? Nourishing, and builds character.
As long as I don’t actually join in on the mess making, and it will be extremely difficult not to, it won’t be my problem. I’ll offer to help clean up, but I don’t have to.
Grandchildren will also provide the final piece in the puzzle for a complete education for our kids. No child ever really knows what their parents went through until they have children of their own. No, I’m not wishing the old “I hope you have a kid just like you someday” revenge on them. Actually, maybe I should. I hope they are so lucky as to have great kids like themselves. I’m just saying that parenthood is, without a doubt, the world’s biggest learning experience.
So I definitely look forward to the day when I can roll all over the living room floor with my kids’ kids. I will boldly face the possibility of projectile vomit all over my shirt, gum-based food products in my hair, melted mystery candy-like substances in my pockets, and the inevitable stained knees, buttocks, elbows, and everywhere else on my clothes. I was a willing target for it in my daddy days, and it’s nothing a little Tide and a washing machine can’t handle.
My aching back might be a different story.
28
Withdrawal
I hardly said a word to David on the transcontinental flight back to California. All I wanted to do was sleep, and he seemed to be thinking pretty hard about something anyway. I couldn’t shake the blues, the feeling of emptiness.
Stuck in that in-between state of sleep and wakefulness that only plane travel can provide, my brain toggled from past to present.
I drifted back to when The Piglet was first taking wing. We decided that David should escort her to college while I stayed home to tend the nest. At the airport, I tagged along up to the security line, bravely smiled and waved as they put their shoes back on and headed for the gate, and then sat in my car in the parking lot and cried like Tammy Faye Bakker on the second day of her period. It was a regular air-sucking, mascara-dripping, please-God-nobody-see-me sob fest. Not my finest moment.
Back at home with Decibel and The Boy, I was thankfully able to focus my helicopter mom hovering on their activities. It was a darn good thing they were there, because otherwise I might have followed The Piglet to college.
Then a movie-like montage of our blissful visit to New York began to play under my pretending-to-be-sleeping eyelids. That first take-your-breath-away gasp I uttered when I saw each of my children for the first time in months. My God, they’re beautiful. The goofy antics on the subway whilst surrounded by disinterested New Yorkers. The laughing ’til someone publicly spit-takes a sip of red wine, something I’m only capable of doing with Decibel and The Piglet. I had replays of our spirited debates that continue a family tradition. Last-minute Christmas shopping in techno-music-blaring clothing stores with monosyllabic names like Pink, Funk, Dream, and Wear. The mobs of people, the honking, the sirens, the screeching of trains. Come to think of it, New York is really, really loud.
Otherwise I might be actively lobbying to move to the city to be close to The Piglet and Decibel. The Boy could tag along once he finished college. We could be one big happy family again. I could fire back up the chopper, be overbearing, and butt my nose back into their new adult lives. They’d love it. Right. Good thing the never-ending racket of NYC is so prohibitive.
There’s nowhere to escape the constant bombardment of sound. The shops and restaurants often have doors open to the street noise, or music blaring, or both. The commotion even permeates apartment walls, and fuggedaboutit if the windows are open. If I were to live in Manhattan, I’d need a penthouse apartment in a skyscraper just to get some peace. I can’t imagine being able to afford that anytime soon.
Maybe we’re used to the relative quiet of our BAMF-dwelling existence, or maybe the old ears ain’t what they used to be, but I don’t know how anyone can carry on a conversation in the city. Lord knows, nothing makes a lady feel young like having to cup her hand behind her ear and yell what?! a million times with a hoarse, overused voice. Yet, out of the bedlam came inspiration.
In one of our family’s favorite eateries, called Bread—in keeping with the city’s monosyllabic rule—I came up with an idea for New York’s newest hot spot. However, even though Bread is laid back by NYC standards, between the full-frontal volume of the background music and the rising level of the patrons’ conversations competing against it, I couldn’t muster up enough voice to share my big idea with the entire table. So I decided to relay it to the closest person.
I nudged David and said, “Wouldn’t it be great if there were a place we could go where we could all hear each other?”
“What?!”
He was sitting right beside me, but years of standing next to drummers had taken a toll.
I was about to reattempt when Decibel, whose voice easily cut through the din, informed me that, “Mom, you’re yelling again.”
David was looking at me inquisitively. I could see he was shifting into lip reading mode, so I tried again.
“Wouldn’t it be great if there was some place we could go where we could all hear each other?”
“You hate that home plate we should go to be near beach otters?”
He sucks at reading lips.
“No, I have a great idea for a night club.” I nearly shouted while trying to form my words visually and obviously.
“You need some Vicks VapoRub?”
“Your lip reading is very impressive.”
“You keep heating cherry espresso?”
“Never mind, I’ll tell you outside.”
“You want to see The Princess Bride?”
I gave up and went back to my soup. He took the cue and happily resumed consumption too.
Once we reached the relative quiet of the crowded street and the peaceful clamor of the traffic, I brought up my idea again.
“I had an idea back there. This may come as a surprise to you. Night club.”
“No kidding. Inconceivable.”
“You might be even more obnoxious when you can hear. I was saying we should open a place here in Manhattan where people could go to talk, and actually hear each other.”
David’s eyes lit up. “That’s brilliant! We could soundproof the crap out of it like a recording studio and call it Quiet.”
We were just getting going.
“How ’bout we dress the cocktail waitresses up like hot librarians, and . . .” I was imagining all kinds of scenarios when The Piglet burst my bubble as a true New Yorker.
“No one would go there.”
“All the better,” David muttered, thinking no one could hear.
But I did, and silently agreed.
I was shaken out of my quasi-comatose state by the wheels touching down at LAX. Ugh, reality. I thought I had become (semi) okay (ish) with my empty nest issues, but seeing The Spawn in New York had reignited my Momminess. In the excitement leading up to our visit, I hadn’t prepared myself for the good-byes, and the inevitable withdrawal nosedive downward spiral that would follow.
Was I forever doomed to endure a Spawn-missing funk after every time I saw the kids?
Was this the syndrome those lamenting online empty nesters were talking about?
29
Now What?
Once Veronica and I were back in Southern California, a big realization hit. Now what? We had done everything we had set out to do. All of the people to whom we owed long-overdue visits had been duly visited. The idea of a used motor home to facilitate our travels had worked out swimmingly, and what’s more, BAMF was still going strong. Our apartments were all rented out. We hadn’t gone broke. Where would we go from here?
As much as Jeff kept asking us to stay longer, we all knew that his house was full and BAMF couldn’t stay in his driveway forever. We had to go somewhere.
Our trip to the Big Apple was an effective reminder that the weather in most of the country had turned to full-blown winter and, after last year’s Midwestern frozen frolics, neither of us wanted to go through it again. So, why not stay out in this part of the country? Spend the winter in the Desert Southwest, maybe Arizona. Yeah, that sounded like a good place to elude the cold.
I thought that some new explorations might help get Veronica’s mind off of her newfound empty nest symptoms too. I could tell she was gamely fighting a big bout of separation anxiety. Christmas had been the first time we were with all three of the kids at once since the nest emptied. Leaving them definitely hit her.
So, Arizona ho—but first, I had cooked up a little surprise. Our twenty-seventh anniversary was coming right up, and I had a weird, hopefully romantic, trick up my sleeve. We could stop off in El Centro, a little town in California’s Imperial Valley that retains a noteworthy place in our history. El Centro is where, after our infatuated letter-writing campaign, I made my Romeo-like return to sweep my Juliet off her feet. We stayed at the less-than-luxurious Airporter Hotel while I did five nights a week in the lounge.
After a few months, it was also where we loaded up The Shark mobile and embarked on our trek to Nashville and an unimaginable lifetime together. All in all, I figured the sight of the place should bring back memories capable of making even the most depressed individual feel pretty nostalgic, not to mention lucky to have escaped.
At the time, even the insanity of brand-spanking-new young love couldn’t immunize us from the heat, blowing sand, and outright desolation of the place. Every day we spent in El Centro, the temperature was over one hundred, topping out at a pleasant 127 one afternoon. Bare feet were impossible outdoors, air conditioners blew up daily, and we literally fried an egg in the parking lot. Yes, it can be done.
Makes it hard to believe that none of those lovely perks were the clinchers as to why we came to refer to the place as Hell Centro. That moniker came about when the cricket plague hit.
Millions upon millions of crickets seemed to appear overnight. I remember thinking that Pharaoh must have really pissed off God this time. The jumpy bugs covered every inch of the ground. Just walking to the hotel lobby was a disgusting exoskeleton-crunching nightmare. They came inside, under the doors and through the vents. Jumpin’ jiminy! They were everywhere.
The locals took the crickets in stride; it was perfectly normal to them. They simply scooped up the insects with snow shovels. Yes, there was a thriving snow shovel business in a town where snow wouldn’t have a snowball’s chance in . . . never mind.
As harsh as the conditions in our little desert love nest had been, I thought those memories might cheer Veronica up. Plus, it was right on our way to wherever it was we were heading. We really didn’t know, but we said our good-byes to brother Jeff and the gang, and headed east.
The feeling was quite different from our previous departures. We had no particular destination in mind beyond the next day or so. No more people left to see. Nothing on our itinerary. The plan really was no plans.
I let that roll around my brain while I worked my way through the freeway insanity of the Valley, LA, and San Bernardino. Finally the traffic started thinning out and I pushed BAMF up the Santa Ana Mountains that separated Los Angeles, and us, from good old Hell Centro.
30
Admitting I Have a Problem Is the First Step
Watching LA disappear in the rearview mirror, I spent all my energy holding back a crying jag. I was one “Honey, are you okay?” away from a complete breakdown.
I should have been relishing the return to our vagabond ways, but instead I felt dark and listless. The scenery whizzing by had lost its luster. David and I sat in an unusual silence. He knew better than to ask me if I was okay. He didn’t need a basket case on his hands while tackling sixty-mile-an-hour, bumper-to-bumper Southern California traffic in a less-than-nimble old motor home.
As we started to climb up out of the city, I was burying myself in memories of parenthood. Focusing on the happier recollections only plunged me deeper down in the dumps, while thinking back on the harder aspects of the job gave me the guilts. Yep, I’d fallen back into full mommy-mode. I couldn’t believe how much I missed my babies. My ears were actually aching from holding back tears.
Then David pierced the silence. “Oh shit!”
I caught a movement on the side of the road. A young deer, all spindly-legged and scared, was bolting from the trees and heading straight for the gap between BAMF and the vehicle ahead of us. In the heavy traffic there was nowhere to go, nothing to do but hope she would turn around. David hit the brakes and leaned on the horn while we yelled at the confused yearling to change course. Everything seemed to slow down, giving us way too much time to watch, horrified, as the fragile little fawn decided to shoot the gap in front of us. In that decelerated moment, the doomed creature looked right at me. I could taste her fear as BAMF loomed. Then the sound of her youthful body hitting the bumper and rolling underneath us restarted the clock and turned my stomach over.
I managed to hold back the urge to vomit, but not the flood of already waiting tears. David pulled over and we jumped out, but knew there was nothing to do but feel awful. Crying into David’s hug, I sobbed for the little deer, and for my children who had grown up and left me behind.
David kissed the top of my head and led me back aboard.
Inside, he soothed me into BAMF’s loft and retook the helm so the road could rock me off to sleep.
Waking up a few hours later, snuggled in a warm cocoon of blankets, my eyes puffy from crying, I lay quietly in the semidarkness, and a calm of realization dawned. I’m supposed to be sad.
This wasn’t a backslide. It’s a normal, healthy process. A bout of depression after reprising my acclaimed role as mommy didn’t mean I couldn’t let The Spawn go; it meant that I was human. I’d actually be a freak if I could say good-bye to my children and then skip off into the sunset without a care in the world.
So I began to formulate a plan—I know, I know, the plan is no plans, but an exception was called for. The joy of seeing my babies will always have an equal and opposite reaction of separation sadness connected to it. That’s an irrefutable law of nature. In the future I’d need to mentally prepare myself for the withdrawals. Plan ahead for the inevitable—and understandable—postreunion meltdown. When dealing with Spawn-visitation disengagement, I will suspend the plan-is-no-plans philosophy and envision myself steadfastly bidding farewell, and contently anticipating our next get-together.
My epiphany also clarified my vision of the new lifestyle we had embraced. It always appealed to me, perhaps stirring my ancestral gypsy heritage, but now I knew I could go forward without fear, guilt, or regret. The time had come to cast the cautions of motherhood aside and live the rest of my life.
I pulled back the curtain and peered out BAMF’s loft window toward my near future, wondering what that future might be. I had no idea, but I could hardly wait. Then something looked familiar, a place I vaguely remembered from long ago.
Were we near somewhere I had lived as a kid? Did David turn around while I was asleep? I knew I recognized something about the place, but just couldn’t quite conjure up what. Then I spotted the dumpy hotel by the airport on the edge of town. Oh my God, we were in Hell Centro!