September 2009
Because I’m not living my days the same way anymore, I don’t
want to forget them; a typical winter day; a typical summer day. In 2009, my daughter
was 16 and my son was 15.
During the school year, my alarm went off at 6:20, five days
a week, not really an alarm because the shrillness would be too jarring, so I
made sure I woke to soft music from the 70s. My daughter had a 7:00 class, so
she and her father were already up and moving around. They would leave at 6:50
and then it was my turn to take my son to school at 7:30.
I was glad not to have to leave the house in the dark at
6:50 but at the same time, my husband had the better situation since our
daughter was always cheerful and funny. They had a fabulous time driving
together each morning, singing along to their favorite songs and thinking and
sharing deep thoughts.
I, on the other hand, would drive with my 15-year-old son,
my surly morning companion. Making conversation with him was a bit of a
challenge for me. I dutifully asked questions and made inane comments (as was
my duty), and he grunted a lot. He was not nearly as impressed with me as he’d
been when he was six.
I don’t have brothers, only sisters, so trying to relate to
a son required some effort, which was not always easy that early in the
morning. We didn’t like the same music so we ended up listening to some
God-awful radio station geared toward teens.
Sometimes he would tell me about his classes and friends, or
at least as much as he wanted me to know, and I nodded a lot, secretly
marveling that his voice was that deep, that he had the beginnings of a
moustache, and that he could almost pass for a man.
By the time we arrived at school, I was almost relieved to
say good-bye and speed away (not really; I drove away at an appropriate speed).
I would quickly put in one of my own CDs and make my way to
work.
At the end of the work day, whoever walked in the door first
made supper, and it was usually me. My father had picked up both kids at their
schools and they were doing their homework when I arrived.
I would consider (as I did every day) what I could cook that
the kids would eat since they didn’t like my gumbo or any of the other gourmet
meals I was capable of preparing. No, they were happier eating fish sticks or
Hamburger Helper, neither of which I could make myself prepare. So I spent
another meal watching them glare at their food as they wondered what in God’s
name I was forcing them to eat this time.
If it was a Monday night, my son had to go back to school
for orchestra practice, and if it was a Tuesday night, he had to go to his
Sacramento Youth Symphony rehearsal in a different location. My husband and I
tried to coordinate these trips with a visit to the gym, where I spent an hour
on the treadmill, at what I thought was a formidable incline, walking very
fast.
My husband would spend an hour blatantly outdoing me by
using both the elliptical and the stair master machines, neither of which I
would ever attempt.
While at the gym, I always walked over to the large window
that overlooked the pool and waved to my 72-year-old father, who, invariably,
was in the pool for an aqua size class. He always laughed when he saw me, as
though he hadn’t seen me in the same spot the day before, and waved, bobbing up
and down, trying to keep up with the 90-year-old instructor.
I always made a big show of looking for my mother, who
should have also been in the pool, and my father would point to the dressing
room. The class had clearly started, so all we could do was shrug and look
exasperated.
After my “workout,” my husband would drop me off at home so
I didn’t have to ride along to pick up Adam. I would check on Sara, who, invariably,
was still doing her homework. I would pet my little Shitzu, Abby, who was
desperate to see me after a long day of not seeing me.
Then I would take the clean dishes out of the dishwasher and
put in the dirty ones, start a load of laundry, pay a couple of bills, put dog
food in the bowl, fill out some paperwork for the schools, water the plants,
check our email for any emergencies, straighten up around the house, and then
make my way to the bedroom to watch a basketball game and crochet for a while.
Within a short time, I would hear the other three members of
my family watching TV in the living room and laughing uproariously the whole
time.
I would drop into my “crochet chair” and watch a basketball game that I
had taped so I could zip through the commercials and watch the whole game in fewer
than two hours since I didn’t have two hours left in my day. I would crochet
and watch the game with my dog curled up happily at my feet. I could hear the
other three laughing like they would bust a gut and wondered what was so darned
funny, every single night.
After a while, one of the kids (usually my daughter) would appear and plop down on the bed to describe, in excruciating
detail, every thought that flitted through her mind.
I would sigh inwardly and try to glance at the score on the
television when she paused to take a breath. Blissfully unaware that she was
burning my only two hours of freedom, she would meander through her verbal
dissertation about the curious and fascinating life of a teenager, which I sometimes
thought was more curious than fascinating.
When she finally ran out of steam, the basketball game was
over. I had no idea what happened or who won, and she would bounce up and out
of the room with a quick goodnight. I would put down my crochet and get ready
for bed. The dog had to go out, so I would stand there waiting while she did
her business in a suspiciously leisurely manner.
The last thing I did was set the alarm that was not really
an alarm but a trigger that initiated bad 70s music, and the cycle would start
all over again, the following morning, at 6:20.
***
Now in the summer, my days unfolded differently. The kids
would leave to visit their grandmother in Alberta, where they had summer jobs.
Because the kids were gone, the summer version of me changed
clothes and let them drop to the floor. I had the good grace to sigh and shrug,
but, frankly, the thought of seeking out a hanger seemed vaguely overwhelming.
I didn’t lift the pillows off the floor and place them on
the bed because I didn’t make the bed when the kids were gone. I jostled the
bedcovers some and then moved along to the next half-attempted task.
Ironically, my husband still tried to make his side of the bed, but managed
very little symmetry because my side looked like I was still in it.
My summer self was an aimless creature. I had to coach
myself, strenuously, to apply mascara to both the top and bottom lashes because
I actually ran out of steam half way through the process.
Cooking meals was a quaint custom from long ago (during the
school year a week or two earlier) and a hearty bowl of Cheerios always met my needs.
I could live this way because I knew it was temporary.
I could live this way because the kids weren’t watching and
I could ignore that side of myself that strove to be a highly competent parent during
the school year.
During the summer, I didn’t so much slog through each day as
skim my way along, like a dragonfly skims the surface of a pond.
The kids would be back soon enough and then I would make my
bed each morning as though I had all summer and had all of my life, without
fail.
Soon enough the sun would set earlier and the school year
would begin; that roller coaster of days I thought would never end, but did.
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