Time

How it shifts and changes

We are in the thick of summer with sun and bugs and so much humidity and heat, I find myself dreaming of snow. I have tried hard not to let the temperatures and dew points interfere with my ability to be outside, but it’s hard. In June and July, we have had 13 days of temperatures in the high 80s or 90s, with one day breaking 100 degrees. Tuesday through Friday of next week looks like we will once again be enjoying temperatures flirting with 90 degrees. For reference, the 30-year average of number of 90 degree days in Boston is 14 days. On the weekends, we have shifted out of the spring and early summer weather pattern of rain and been lucky to have some truly glorious summer days. I have been hiking further and longer on the weekends. I am not sure our 10-year-old dog is particularly pleased that our wood hikes have nearly doubled in altitude and length, but he has largely been a good sport.

When I don’t get my time in the woods, I notice it. I am more irritable. The fourth shift of eating that occurs between after both D and I have gone to bed means that the counter and sink become home to four to five glasses, some sticky with the dregs of a midnight milkshake, a metal bowl with unpopped kernels on the bottom of the bowl and streaks of salt crystals on the sides, yogurt-encrusted bowls—some from several days ago, some with what was once frozen berries stuck in the old yogurt, and always a bowl or two with the puddles of melted ice cream. These dishes, which never fail to greet me in the early mornings can be met with a simple sigh, a quick rinse and placement in the dishwasher while I wait for my espresso to finish brewing, or, on those occasions when my irritability is up, muttering and cursing the three young adults, fast asleep in their bedrooms above my head. I don’t sleep as well when I haven’t gotten in enough movement. And while the period between Z’s birth and M’s second or so year—about seven years in total—was one in which a good night’s sleep meant four or five hours patched together in one- to two-hour intervals, I can no longer manage very well without at least six hours of sleep. My ability to be mindful, to focus on the here and now is off kilter. Anxiety may creep in and my old nemesis worry will try mightily to take up residence in my brain. Assuming good intentions becomes more challenging and I find myself creating narratives that are a help to no one.

Back when being helpful was fun!

Escaping every weekend for several hours in the woods is something that I could never have done pre-COVID. Weekends were full of soccer games, theater rehearsals, Destination Imagination, robotics, birthday parties, haircuts, laundry, grocery shopping, running out at the last minute to get whatever had been forgotten or was not doable during the week. Our lives were busy busy busy and centered around all the activities in which our children were involved. We were constantly driving them to something, picking them up from something, watching a game or a performance, helping with rehearsal or set build. Wednesday and Friday afternoons, I was at the neighborhood school music-directing the elementary school musical. In the fall and spring, any number of our boys had to be driven to the soccer field for practices that were always at the most inconvenient times for working parents—4:30 or 5 pm, which made the travel home on practice days more stressful as every minute counted. Traffic meant the dash into the house to cajole the child into his uniform, find the cleats, fill the water bottle, bring the orange slices when it was our turn was that much more pressured. Somehow, dinner got made, children got fed, and everyone got where they needed to be about 98% of the time. Looking back, I don’t know how we did it. With full-time jobs and three busy boys. But somehow, we ran at high efficiency most of the time.

I have been struck by how much time I have on the weekends this summer. Z and L get themselves where they need to go these days: they drive, their friends drive, they don’t need us to uber them around anywhere. And they are busy bees. Some weekdays, I don’t see Z at all. No one is awake when I leave for work, he is often out with friends by the time I arrive home, and then I’m off to bed before he returns. Only M can’t drive—which is changing all too soon—and his needs are so much less than when there were three boys we had to get places.

These young men. They don’t need so much from me anymore. All the space that was once occupied by requests for stories or snacks or more water or a walk to the playground or a visit to see a friend is now open for me to fill. Of course, the demands of a household of five people still takes up a lot of time—the never-ending laundry, constant requests for more food, the dishes, the cooking, the wiping down of counters and sinks and toilet seats—that is all still there. But they are more and more independant.

This weekend, D and I went up to our friends’ lake house. We sat on their dock, looking out at the lake, a calm basin steeped in pine, the water the color of steeped tea, rich with the tannins from decaying leaves and pine needles. Maine, its rugged, natural beauty, unpretentious and quietly proud. We swam a bit, the water a perfect temperature—relaxing and enveloping. We shared a simple but delicious meal together on their porch, looking out over the lake, watching as the setting sun sparkled brilliantly on the water. Two loon, dipping their heads silently below the water, surfacing just as quietly. Our friends share that the loons had welcomed three chicks, who would ride on their parents’ backs in the days after they hatched. But the lake is also home to a bald eagle, who snatched up all three chicks within a few weeks. Our friends also shared that loons are highly territorial and claim an entire lake as their own. They will return, year after year, sometimes to the same nesting place. A mated pair will defend their territory, fighting other loons who try to nest on the same lake. We talked about birds—the owls we have been hearing back home, the nastiness of blue jays—sharp in their appearance, but also their tongue—the brilliant red of a cardinal that has been frequenting our backyards. The day slipped by, simple, calm, and relaxing.

Chaos is all around us. Finding something to churn up that peaceful space—the one offered by a day by the lake with good friends and good company or a solitary hike through the woods—is not hard. At times, that churning has been caused by anxiety or frustration or being flummoxed by how to parent one of my boys. For the most part, however, what my boys need now is steadiness, reliability, unconditional love and positive regard, and a willingness to let them go. Settling into the relative quiet of this phase of life is sometimes simple. And sometimes, it is hard not to get pulled into the nostalgia of when life was buzzing and full and I was always needed. Nostalgia comes from the Greek words for return (nostos) and pain (algos) and means the suffering that comes from returning to one’s origins. As much as I wish I could hear those little voices again; I could feel those tiny little fingers curling around mine; breathe in that warm, soft smell as my infant snuggled right into me; that time when my voice, my touch could soothe their wounded heart or body; I know that holding too tightly to the past will impede my ability to build and nurture my relationship with the young adults they are blossoming into now. I hold those memories of their early lives. I treasure those moments, those precious little scenes in my heart of the small beings they once were. And I have to be fully present with the young men who are growing up right in front of me.

So I take my two-hour hikes in the forest while one of them works, one of them heads into the city with a friend for a day of thrifting, and one of them sleeps. D and I fill our time with our own hobbies, our friends, and our refocusing on each other. I know we both feel the duality of this transition. The deep delight and pride in the men they are becoming; in watching them start to figure out their values and how they want to live in a world that is in such disarray. The space that is left in us, in our home, as they pull away toward their own lives.

This was always the goal.

This was always the destination.

We just didn’t see it coming up so quickly as we focused in on what was right in front of us.

As my dad said to me, so many years ago when I asked him why he wanted to bring children into a world as cruel as ours, “I always hoped you would be part of the solution. That you would make the world a kinder place.” I see my boys and their friends, I see my friends’ children, and it is possible for me believe that love and kindness, empathy and compassion will win out over the hatred and greed that is trying to find footing.

Because these kids, they are more than all right.

They are the world.

My son, look at my son
Pride is not the word I'm looking for
There is so much more inside me now
Oh, Philip, you outshine the morning sun
My son
When you smile, I fall apart
And I thought I was so smart

~Lin-Manuel Miranda

All photos were taken by the exceptional Dana Giuliana, unless otherwise noted.

Thanks for spending some of your day reading this post. I hope it resonated. Periplum of motherhood and other wonderings is free. If you enjoy reading, please share it with friends!