Oct
03
2007
As I try to figure out good ways to plow through these first weeks of life without Lulu in residence, I thought it might be enlightening to ask people about their own experiences:
BS (mid-fifties-ish), California
“At first it was hard but soon I was just happy to have my house to myself again. I’m just glad she’s not still living with me … and hope she doesn’t move back in!”
AR (59), California
“I shouldn’t say this — this is embarrassing — but when I got home from taking A to college, I walked in the door and collapsed on the floor sobbing.”
J at the Y (early-sixties-ish), California
“I didn’t go through that because my daughter went to community college. What was hard for me is when she got married. I lost my playmate.”
VC (93), West Virginia
“It was hard. It was good too. I don’t rightly remember. That was a long time ago.”
Mom (79), Delaware
“Frankly, each of you I missed but I thought, ‘They’re where they should be.’ I didn’t think about it any more. You can’t stop and wallow in it. When K [ed. note: third and youngest child] went to college, you and your brother were all hyped up about that new psychology ‘empty nest’ stuff and you both called us the night she left … you were really worried about us. But by the time the third one was gone, we were glad. I cleared all K’s furniture out right away. It’s not a death. It’s the nature of things. It would be different if you’d been going off to prison…”
October 8 P.S. I just got a voice message from Mom in which she said, among other things: “Remember you asked about what it was like for me when you went away to college? What I said was true: I was glad that you’d gone off. But now I miss you. I want you to be here.”
Me (just a child, really), California
“I’m so glad you asked. It’s like the homesickness I was prone to as a kid: waves of dark that scare you because you can’t see out. It reminds me of West Virginia hollows in the summer: you wake up barely able to see through mist so close you’re breathing it. As the morning warms the fog thins. In early evening it comes back at you, building like dread, rising from the grass until you’re enveloped again. And then it’s night.”
Too melodramatic, you say? Welcome to my clichéd interior landscape!
I wonder if childhood homesickness predicts adult difficulty with separation.
I’m realizing that it’s more than just missing Lulu. It’s my stupid thoughts that aren’t worth the brain-room they’re printed on:
- “Well, now you’ve gone and done it. You were supposed to grow up and get married and have children and watch them grow and have a nice little getaway in the mountains and, right about now, start enjoying your Happy Golden Years with your own beloved Mr. Right with whom you’ve blissfully shared your whole life. But no… it’s too late for all that.”
- “You should’ve played more with Lulu. You should have paid more attention to her. You should have sung her more songs, like that woman over there is doing with her son.” Then my thoughts turn vengeful: “Well, savor every moment, Mrs. Perfect. Because before you know it he’ll be gone…”
- “You were a terrible parent. Like those times you were driving and lost your temper. You must’ve traumatized her. Remember the day you were heading home on that winding country road outside Nevada City and some jerk practically drove you off the road? ‘You’re such a dick,’ you yelled. ‘Great driving, dick-butt! Mister Dick Butt!’ Lulu, all of three, asked, ‘Mama, who is Dick Butt?’”
Sep
25
2007
Okay, this is really weird.
As soon as I left for college back in nineteen-aught-seventy-two, my mother started sending clippings: first, newspaper articles about acquaintances’ weddings. Then the jobs, honors and children of these same people. Now, of course, the deaths have started rolling in, mostly of adults important to me when I was young, but also of my peers. Woven through these threads have been the odds and ends: a feature from Antiques Digest about a 1700s green-glass bottle like the one my great-grandparents had; a real estate ad about the sale of the house I grew up in; a blurb from the Wilmington police blotter about that kid I used to hang out with, Carmine, who just got thrown in jail for murder. Often Mom scrawls little notes in the margin: “Didn’t you used to know him?”
Then came the articles about the advantages of tattoo-removal.
While I’ve always appreciated her making the effort to send me this stuff, I’ve never understood why she does it. Every single time I get one of these, my brain goes through the same sequence: “What’s this? Doesn’t look like a bill. Oh, it’s a letter from Mom! Yay! I love getting real letters … [rip] … Oh, man. Another stupid clipping.”
So what do I do within 12 hours of coming home to a Lulu-less house for the first time? I cut out two articles from the university’s monthly and send them to Lulu at her new dorm room. One’s about an entomologist who helped with a murder case by identifying the native region of bugs splatted on a car’s fender, to determine where the driver had been. And I didn’t even bother to jot anything into the margin. All I did was take a Barbie-Pink highlighter to call out the parts I most wanted Lulu to read.
On another note: when I threw back the covers last night to crawl into bed, I found a card from Lulu, accompanied by two dark chocolate candies. As I inhaled the latter I read the former. I was deeply moved, and appreciative beyond all reason.
Shortly after I read the card, I fell asleep while holding my tall glass of grape juice and fizzy water. I woke up an hour later with an upside-down glass in my hand and several ounces of grape juice and fizzy water on my chest.
Dec
26
2005
I don’t feel well today. Too many gumdrops?
Wouldn’t you think that after a week in Antigua I’d stop getting lost?
Today was our first day of Spanish school. Our house is due south of the school so I’m not sure why we started walking west but we did, ominously passing the cemetery and then getting lost among the vegetables in the mercado. When we arrived several blocks north of the school, we paused to reconnoiter, and then headed further north toward La Merced. I asked directions several times but didn’t understand the answers.
Like a pair of anacondas we made ever-tightening circles around the school until, finally, we immobilized it. When you consider it’s normally a 10-minute walk to the school, you have to be at least a little impressed that we made it in a mere 45 minutes.
Here’s some of the stuff we passed. First, this is our street. Can you guess which of those two words is its name?
Two blocks away is this cool ruina.
We found pigs on Calzada de Santa Lucia and a horse near La Merced.
And here’s our Spanish school.
In class I learned that I’m in Grado A (the baby-talk level), a fact that pleased my Grado B daughter. My teacher and I experimented for a while with el tiempo pasado of llegar and llevar, and then we fué-d to Antigua’s mercado where I comprar-ed some presents for myself.
After school we did errands and explored Antigua, once again encountering our Chicago friends we’d discovered at Lago de Atitlán. Sadly, this turned out to be the last time we saw them.
