Similiarities between a broken shoulder and a political campaign?

“If you are going through hell, keep going.” – Winston Churchill

 

Two years ago this week, I fell down a long flight of wooden stairs in our house and shattered my shoulder. One year ago this week, I was embroiled in a fierce campaign for a city council seat. Surprisingly, my memories of both experiences are remarkably similar.

 

The shoulder and the campaign both involved pain and required perseverance. Both journeys took a lot of time and demanded that I do things I didn’t want to do.

 

I don’t like doctors or medical appointments – not at all. In fact, I avoid them to a sometimes ridiculous degree. The shoulder (“Flippy” as I call her) caused me to spend more time in hospitals and clinics than I’d spent in my entire life. There was the ER visit, the orthopedic consultations, discussion of the surgery, and then the surgery, which involved the placement of nine pins and two plates. After that came the aftercare, and finally, physical therapy – initially, twice a week.   

 

For a person who feels nauseous and ready to faint just sitting in a medical waiting room, all of that was very hard and pretty miserable.    

 

Similarly, for an introvert like me, the process of “putting myself out there” to run for office was quite daunting. Running for public office has never been on my wish list, but at the time I felt like change was needed and I could contribute.  I entered the race in late August and due to a run-off, the process that was supposed to end on November 5 lasted another month.  

 

As with the shoulder, almost all of the things a political campaign requires are difficult for me to do. Going door to door, introducing myself to strangers, making appearances at meetings and public events, and dealing with public criticism did not come easily.   

 

Both endeavors taught me that patience is, indeed, a virtue although it’s never been one of mine. They also taught me perspective and the importance of being able to laugh. “Flippy” and the campaign required a lot of family support and my family gave generously.  

 

During both events, I surprised myself with just how brave I can be. The shoulder pain lasted much longer than it was supposed to…there was a re-injury along the way…and every time I came close to mastering the therapy exercises, more difficult ones were assigned…Gulp, gasp and go on. Canvasing neighborhoods, knocking on doors…another round of signs…one more meeting…a series of vicious attacks.. Gulp, breathe and go on. I did that over and over again…

 

The doctor said it would take a year for my shoulder to heal and it did. It took another year for “Flippy” to be as good as she’ll ever get. I was sure I could make it through a two month race, but when it stretched to three, that almost got the best of me.

 

In both healing and politics, a certain amount of optimism is needed in order to continue on. And, for a glass-half-empty girl, the light at the end of a very dark tunnel often eludes me. But, the support and encouragement of so many folks, both strangers and friends, carried me through it and it turns out, there was light on the other side.  

 

When “Flippy” and I were struggling complete strangers would open doors for me, offer to carry things and ask if I was alright. Friends offered encouragement and meals, light-hearted chatter and small gifts. Similarly, when I was campaigning complete strangers would offer such warm enthusiasm, opinions and tips for success, while the generosity of friends and supporters provided constant encouragement. All of this was heartwarming. It gave me strength. It reminded me that no matter how far outside of my comfort zone I ended up, I was never alone. 

 

In the end, “Flippy’s” outcome was better than the city council race. The final vote count was 376-323. I lost by 53 votes. My heart was broken, but I didn’t feel bad. Those numbers indicated that I’d given it a good go and a lot of people believed in me.

 

As for “Flippy,” she still hurts when the weather changes and there are some things I simply can’t do, like pull-start a lawn mower, carry heavy objects or certain yoga moves. I don’t mind, though. It reminds me of how thankful I am that I did heal and that life goes on. If these are the biggest challenges I have to face, I am well-blessed.  

 

Nelson Mandela said, “It always seems impossible until it’s done.” I like that thought, especially now that “Flippy” and the campaign are no longer challenges, but mere memories.    

 

 

tomatoes and the art of transition...

“Life is a transition.” – Lailah Gifty Akita  

I just ate the last tomato sandwich of the season. Either bugs or blight or both took out my tomato plants, so I pulled them up yesterday. As sweaty and grouchy as I get in the last heat of the summer, it’s always a bit sad when the garden starts to fail and die. But then, I struggle with transition.  

It’s not the major transitions that get to me. I went from high school to college, college to work, single to married, married to motherhood, motherhood to empty nest with relative ease. Those were transitions I chose, prepared and planned for.

It's the unexpected transitions and the small, frequent transitions – the ones I have no control over - that challenge me. It’s reasonable to get a bit panicked by things like “now my husband's out of work" or "my daughter has to have appendix surgery - today." With pause, think, breathe and make a plan, I have coped with these. But I have to focus and breathe even more calmly when something like the car won't start or the plumbing gets clogged or a pet gets sick happens. Why?

Transition is the constant in every day. We move from sleep to dream, dream to awake; home to work, work to home, busy to resting; still to active; and so on…And, on any given day, we are parents, children, siblings and spouses; caretakers, caregivers, alone and with others. We move between worker and supervisor, teacher and learner. Then there are the emotional transitions - strong to weak, energetic to tired, happy to sad, bored to fulfilled, needed to needy, aware to oblivious – the shifts go on and on…  

One of my problems with transition has to do with being a perfectionist. If things aren’t just right then they’re not right at all and keeping the bar set that high results in trouble shifting gears. When I was busy being the perfect worker, I worked longer and harder than my family preferred. Yet, in order to meet my personal standards as a mother, I never truly focused on work. The same goes for housework and yard work and life's other details. As long as perfect is what I'm striving for, I am destined to fail. Add to that, the unease that comes with not being in control and unexpected transitions become a big deal. 

Over time I have learned that striving for balance and embracing compromise help me transition more easily. It also helps to not be so hard on myself. Chaos happens and, it turns out, a little imperfection is just fine. It’s easier to move through the day, as well as life changes, if you take things one step at a time, rather than let the big picture loom so large that you become paralyzed.  

I used to see everything that challenged me as a struggle, but the more I embrace (and remind myself to embrace) the idea that all I really have to do is simply keep moving from transition to transition, the less of a requirement struggling is.

Unexpected things happen, as do predicted things like the end of tomato season. Transition is the bridge that moves us between and through. If I simply remember to pause, think, breathe and make a plan that embraces the inevitable imperfection that life brings, I can better deal with transitions big and small. After all, the end of tomato season signals the beginning of fall, which means a whole new set of plants to plant and pleasures to enjoy.  

 

Oh, Shadie...what a hot mess.

“A person can learn a lot from a dog, even a loopy one like ours…He taught us the art of unqualified love. How to give it, how to accept it. Where there is that, most other pieces fall into place.” – John Grogan, Marley and Me: Life and Love with the World’s Worst Dog   

 

I like to think things happen for a reason, but sometimes that reason is pretty hard to see. Yet another rescue dog has landed in my life and though she seems nice enough, I’m having trouble viewing her addition to our pack as a good thing.

 

The dog’s name is Shadie partly because she’s a bit of a shady character with an obviously checkered past. Also, she seemed to have no response at all to Chewy – the name her owner gave when he turned her in at animal control. He said Chewy is eight and that’s all we know about her.  

 

A black, medium-sized dog, Shadie has tall German Shepherd-like ears, a curly tail, and her belly looks like she’s had many litters of pups. She was flea-ridden, heart worm positive and needs to be spayed. That’s the only kind of rescue the good Lord sends me…

 

Shadie sat dejected and sad at the animal shelter for nearly a month without generating any interest. Clearly depressed, she lay there ears flat, tail never thumping, barely looking at passersby. She wouldn’t even take a treat; it was as if she’d given up and was waiting to die.

 

When her last day was approaching, a Facebook plea by shelter volunteers generated 245 Likes, 28 Shares and a financial pledge from a woman in Canada for any person/rescue that would save Shadie. In spite of all this, only one adopter came forward and that fell through late on Shadie’s last day.

 

That evening a friend I’d hoped would fall in love with Shadie (but didn’t) called, saying she’d found a permanent foster situation, so, acting for a local rescue, I pulled Shadie from the shelter and took her to the vet. During Shadie’s “freedom ride” (as rescue people say) she jumped out of the car and took off running. Thankfully, a quick and kind woman grabbed her leash and with much cajoling and a box of treats, I was able to get Shadie back in the car.

 

Later, at the permanent foster’s house, Shadie started showing her true colors. She didn’t like to be touched and was very wary around people. She paced back and forth nervously, stopping only long enough to slobber water on the deck. She wouldn’t eat, she didn’t know how to go up and down stairs, and she had no house manners at all. Paws on the counter, tip the trash can over, pace some more, then run back outside…

 

Those people returned Shadie the next day, saying there was nothing about her that would allow her to fit in. My friend, feeling guilty about overselling Shadie to her failed first foster, agreed to give the dog a try. She lasted there almost a week, but by the time they called to say Shadie couldn’t stay - not even the rest of the day – her nervous energy had driven them crazy. They said Shadie seemed to want to please, but had no idea how to do that and so was getting more neurotic every day.      

 

It was becoming clear that Shadie was unadoptable. Whatever her prior life involved had rendered her unable to act like a normal dog. Upon hearing the second foster failed, the rescue turned her over to me, so she became my dog and I didn’t want her - not at all.

 

In desperation, I called my friend, Hank, a dog whisperer, and asked him to come assess Shadie and see if there was anything in her worth saving. Apparently Shadie is very sensitive to energy, because Hank’s calm, gentle but firm pack leader energy put her at ease almost immediately. Within an hour she was settled in with my pack, exploring her new yard and house, in a surprisingly normal way. Hank proclaimed her “a good dog, a smart dog, a dog that, with a little work, will be just fine.” And, so my adventure with Shadie began.

 

A quick Google search revealed that Shadie looks like a black version of an Australian Dingo – a very smart, very active, usually wild dog. A little more research indicated an American version lives wild in the swamps and forests of Georgia and S. Carolina. And, the very behaviors that make Shadie so unnerving to be around are explained by the traits of the Dixie Dingo or Carolina Dog.

 

Used to fending for themselves, these dogs are intelligent, alert, active and very attentive to their surroundings. They live in packs, so have strong cooperative instincts. They are perceptive, not destructive and rarely show aggression. They retain their “puppy energy” well into old age.  

 

While Dixie Dingos can and do bond with humans, they are also aloof, wary, shy with strangers and slow to warm up. Once they do bond, however, they have a high need to be with their pack (dogs or human) in familiar surroundings. They don’t adapt to change well and often can’t be rehomed or even boarded out.

 

These dogs need a lot of exercise and bore quickly. One site described Dixie Dingos as “challenging and their high energy disconcerting until you learn not to be apprehensive about the way they behave.”  Bingo! Ms. Dingo.

 

The saving grace is the dogs are eager to please and learn very quickly. All it takes is natural authority and consistent, confident enforcement of the rules using kindness, patience and a firm but gentle hand…Well, that’s probably the reason Shadie ended up with me. My pack is full of hard luck rescue cases and I rule with a wobbly weak hand. There’s nothing about me that says Pack Leader and my dogs take full advantage of that, which, as dog people know, is no way for dogs or their human to live. Apparently, if Shadie the Dixie Dingo’s going to make it, she’ll need a strong pack leader in me…

 

So far we’re making progress. She follows me everywhere and seems to reflect my energy. The sheer weariness that comes from having a dog underfoot and in near constant motion has me doing a better job of staying calm and focused, because when I am Shadie will sit or even lie down. I have to be firm with her, which means I’m firm with the rest of the pack and they seem to benefit from that. And all dogs love long daily walks.  

 

Hank says it takes two weeks for a dog to settle in and feel comfortable enough for its true personality to emerge…Sounds like in Shadie’s case, if I can provide the leadership she needs, watching her personality bloom will be a good thing. At the very least, the other dogs will benefit from me regaining control…As my daughter-in-law says, “What a hot mess.”

 

 

 

 

 

a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day

“You know, Hobbes, some days even my lucky rocket ship underpants don't help.” – Bill Watterson

 

When my kids were little they liked a book called Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day, by Judith Viorst. My kids liked it so much they asked me to read it over and over again. I hadn’t thought of that book for years until last week, when I had one of the worst terrible, horrible, no good, very bad days I’ve had in a long time.  

 

It started with helping a sick, sad, broken old dog with a sweet spirit die a good death. The dog was not mine; she’d been abandoned after her owner died. The poor soul sat by her lady’s body for three days until the death was discovered, then ended up at animal control. She was a very thin, very small Chow mix - deaf, blind and barely able to walk due to arthritis. All black, except for her white muzzle, this dog was clearly a very old girl, fallen on very hard times. And, she had the saddest, most bewildered look on her face – like, “Where have I ended up…and why?”

 

Once she could be released from animal control, I took her to the vet, who agreed that the kindest thing for this old girl would be to help her over “the rainbow bridge” as animal people say. Honey Bear, as I called her – no one knew her name - seemed to like the car ride. She even smiled a bit and thumped her tail, as she sniffed the air from the open window and rested on a blanket.

 

Our stop for a sausage biscuit really got her old sniffer going and we had a nice picnic together – actually she ate the whole biscuit slowly, but quite enthusiastically – sitting next to me on her blanket in the shade outside the vet’s office. She didn’t seem to mind the exam, which was quick and also on the blanket in the shade. Then, I asked them to leave Honey Bear and I outside for a while longer, as she seemed to be enjoying the sun and the wind and the gentle pats on her head.

 

She fell asleep with her head in my lap and her passage over the rainbow bridge was a quick and peaceful one. It comforted me to think that her last hour was spent calm, happy and loved. One of the things I like most about dogs is the way they live in the moment, from moment to moment. I like to think all Honey Bear remembered, as she slipped across that rainbow bridge to meet her lady on the other side, was how good that sausage biscuit tasted and how nice it was to feel safe again.

 

As I left the vet’s office, the thought of Honey Bear and her lady walking together again, neither of them limping, both finally pain free, helped me through my good long cry…

 

Fast forward a few hours and I’m headed into Hill’s Ace Hardware for a few things to complete a project. For some reason, thankfully, I looked down and noticed that my shirt was on wrong side out – white tags sticking out rather obviously on the sides, the back of my shirt proclaiming its brand and size. A quick trip back to the car for a shirt reversal, crouched down low in the back seat, had me corrected and in I went. I was glad I noticed the wrong-side-out shirt, as Hill’s is one of those places you’re sure to run into several people you know, no matter time of day you’re shopping.

Note to self: turn clothes right-side-out as I take them from the dryer and maybe spend less time at animal control helping out and getting my heart broken…

 

A few hours later it was time to walk the dogs. I usually take them to Ft. Yargo for a good run, which involves loading them all up in the car. We had no longer set out, when I heard the ominous sound of a dog vomiting. I pulled over into the nearest parking lot, which happened to be a bank where a crew of landscapers was busy at work.

 

I’m usually okay with pet clean-up, but the sight of a whole bird and some other assorted things, barfed up in the back of my car got the best of me. I got the bird cleaned up, but then found myself barfing on the other side of the car door. It was so hot and I felt so sick and humiliated and still sad that I just drove away, without cleaning up after myself.

 

I’m sorry landscapers, I’m having a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.     

 

I ended the day with a glass of wine. My only criteria for that wine was that the bottle had a screw cap because I had no energy left, not even for something as simple as using a cork screw…I know these are First World problems that only a person with a very blessed life would bother to talk about, but sometimes even in a very blessed life there is a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.  

 

Please don't cut Animal Control's budget!

“It is better to light a candle than to curse the darkness.” – Eleanor Roosevelt 

 

It’s budget time for Barrow County, which means how much money each department gets for the next fiscal year is currently being discussed. In the initial budget proposal, the department that is near and dear to my heart – Animal Control – is slated for an 8 percent cut. There’s no way that’s going to be anything but a problem – for the staff, the animals and the community.

 

Each year, since 2008 when the economy tanked, the Animal Control budget has been cut, while each year calls for service remain the same or increase. This means for years now, the staff and officers at Animal Control have been doing more with less and that has taken its toll. Right now things are better at Animal Control than they have been for years. Staff morale is good; interim director Jimmy Terrell is doing a great job; and, the volunteer group that formed last July has become a valuable, committed source of manpower and resources for the animal shelter.

 

I’m not a numbers person, so I can’t speak to the budget issues. But, as an animal lover and one of the weekly volunteers at the Animal Control shelter, I can share some of the good things happening at Animal Control in the interest of “pleading the case” for no budget cut.

 

For years the Barrow shelter kill rate has been nearly 50 percent for dogs and over 80 percent for cats. Currently those numbers have dropped to under 20 percent. Why? Teamwork, between the staff at Animal Control, the volunteer group and Leftover Pets, the local non-profit, low cost spay/neuter clinic.

 

Leftover Pets rescues, “”fixes” and adopts out about 10 cats or kittens each month from the shelter. So far this year, they’ve also taken in, “fixed” and rescued another 60 cats and kittens surrendered by local residents. Most of those cats would’ve probably ended up at the animal shelter.

 

An arrangement made with Leftover Pets for shelter animals that are already spay/neutered to have shots at no cost to the county and be adopted from Leftover Pets at no charge has saved many shelter animals, as well.  

 

Some of the volunteers have solid, long-time ties with area and even nation-wide animal rescue organizations, which means the number of animals who get rescued from the shelter has gone up dramatically. One particularly heartwarming example is a Pit Bull who gave birth to nine puppies right after she was surrendered to Animal Control. That lucky mama and all nine of her pups were rescued by a group in Maine that arranged for their transport and had homes waiting for them before they even arrived.

 

Then, there’s the volunteer hours – an average of about 275 labor hours donated to the county each month – by animal lovers like me who do things like scoop poop and mop pens if that’s what it takes to help the animals be comfortable and assist the busy Animal Control staff.

 

My shelter day is Friday; I usually spend most of the afternoon there. First I wash the dog and cat bowls from the day before, then I start a load of wash – blankets and towels we put in some pens to comfort the smaller, older or more worried dogs. After folding and putting up whatever’s in the dryer, I get to see the animals. First I give them all a treat, then I clean up their pens and make sure their water pails are full. Then everyone gets another treat or two and I distribute blankets and towels. Finally, I take a dog or two outside for a romp and maybe play with a cat. When I leave I’m usually in tears – so sad and poignant are so many of their stories, and so soulful, so many of their eyes.

 

The bleach and paper towels we use for the dishes, laundry and pen clean-up are donated. The blankets and towels we distribute and wash are donated, as is the laundry soap. The collars, leashes, treats, chews and cat toys we use are donated. If an animal is badly infested with fleas we use donated medications to help with that. Our bathing supplies are also all donated.

 

As you can see, Animal Control is running an awfully tight ship with many of the basic needs of the animals, right down to food and cat litter, being donated from within the community. If there’s budget fat that needs to be trimmed, it’s hard to see.

 

Many of the other volunteers spend more time at the shelter than me. And, the reason we do it is for the animals and because there is a need. It’s sad to think that any animal in the shelter could end up being euthanized. There is warmth in watching them curl up thankfully on a blanket on that cold, hard floor or wag their tail enthusiastically after gently taking a treat through the kennel bars. No matter what happens, at least they had that. And knowing that the ones who got to go outside or be played with inside, have something sweet to dream about…well, that’s why we gladly donate all of those hours.     

 

Barrow County Roads & Bridges doesn’t have to make a public plea for donated asphalt, nor do other county departments ask for donations of paper, pens or ink cartridges in order to do their work. Animal Control already depends on ongoing community support to do what’s right for the animals, and to do what’s right for the community which is to continue to stretch their ever tighter budget ever further each year. They don’t deserve to lose that 8 percent.

 

(Visit Saving Barrow County Animal Control Pets and Leftover Pets on Facebook, and go to www.barrowpets.org  and www.LeftoverPets.org)

 

Happy Anniversary!

“More marriages might survive if the partners realized that sometimes the better comes after the worst.”  - Doug Larson

Mr. Clark and I just celebrated our 35^th wedding anniversary which sounds like a very long time to some and like we’re just starting out to others. I will admit, saying I’ve been married for 35 years sounds strange to me. I don’t feel “that old” and there’s no way it’s been that long since we two Hippie kids made a few promises we felt we could keep and celebrated over a slice of carrot cake.   

We began our journey on August 19, 1979. It was a glorious day for the casual outdoor wedding we planned – friends and family, nothing big, held at a little house we rented in the mountains outside Boulder, Colorado. It looked like a clip from a Woodstock film  – men sporting pony tails or big bushy Afro’s, wide ties and even wider lapels; women in flowing gowns with tight perms or colorful flowers in their hair.  
       
We lived by a pond, so the ceremony was on a dock my dad built especially for the occasion. We were married by the same judge who married my dad and brother to the wives they remain with today, so there was apparently some luck or blessing in having him officiate.
   
Mr. Clark rented a white tux with tails and I wore a sexy little off-white number I’d found in a thrift store for $35. Our entire wedding budget was $300, a gift from my dad, so we had to be both frugal and creative.

A friend who sold flowers at outdoor concerts said she’d arrange our flowers, if we’d buy them. A couple of friends who worked in restaurants said they’d make the food, if we’d provide the ingredients. Another friend offered to take pictures for the price of the film. And, one more made that marvelous carrot cake.   

The ceremony was short – no “‘til death do us part” – just a few nice quotes and enough sweet sentiment to see us through the next few years, because that was as far as we could see. Mr. Clark’s parents were divorced and so were mine; my brother was in his second marriage; and, our friends all said they’d never marry, since love didn’t need a license to be true.   

We didn’t have a registry and we didn’t get many lasting gifts because, frankly, no one expected us to last. Instead, we had a honeymoon fund and our guests gave generously, so we spent our first married week in Cancun, Mexico back when it was a sleepy fishing village. Our days at the beach and nights in “hamacas matrimoniales” – two hammocks hanging side by side in an open beach hut - were a wonderful way to start the next phase of our adventure together.       

Fast forward a few years and our kids arrived – bam, bam, two of them, 17 months apart…And on to those wonderful, tiring, every-hour-is-filled child-raising years. Before we knew it, we were celebrating our 10^th anniversary. Twenty years together found us in Georgia with kids graduating from high school. By our 26^th  anniversary both kids were out of college and our daughter was married. Next came our son’s wedding, followed by some very quiet time in our marriage. What to focus on now that our obvious job together was done?

When Mr. Clark’s job fell prey to the recession in 2008, times got tough. He was out of work for nearly two years and that was a very difficult time for us. It was all well and good when we had kids to focus on and enough money to make ends meet, but during those dark times of unemployment, Mr. Clark and I rattled around the house we could no longer afford, trying to stay sane, not give up hope and not panic. It became very clear we hadn’t promised “for better or for worse,” and those “for worse” times almost got the best of us. 

Now that Mr. Clark’s been back in the work force for quite a while and we’ve gotten used to being “empty nesters” the “for better” times are back again. In fact, we’re having some of the best times we’ve had together in a long time. It’s fun and engaging to talk about “scaling back” and what comes next and how we want to shape our next 35 years together. 

That’s the thing about marriage – even after 35 years, it can still surprise you. If you’d asked me on that dock that day if I’d still be standing next to Mr. Clark 35 years later, I probably would’ve said it doesn’t matter – so lovely was the “now” we were living in.

Our marriage has turned out to be a better journey and a longer adventure than I expected. It’s been a deeper, richer, more challenging experience than I could ever have imagined. We’ve shared times of closeness and of great distance. And, all along the way we’ve been well-blessed and enjoyed more than a few bits of good luck.       

    
Our daughter gave us a framed picture of a heart with the words, “Mom and Dad, tied together by stuff too difficult to explain to someone new,” calligraphed on it. What a lovely gift and so true!

Anniversaries are one of those times when you ask yourself, “Would I do this all over again?”  My answer is, “Yes.” Let’s renew those not-so-binding vows, eat another slice of carrot cake, and see what comes next. After all, in another 35 years, I’ll only be 91…

           

.      

 

Memories of that Empty Nest and Full Heart...

“All the art of living lies in a fine mingling of letting go and holding on.” – Havelock Ellis

Two close friends of mine moved kids into college dorm rooms this week and knowing their poignant pride and inevitable sense of loss opened a flood gate of memories from the day Mr. Clark and I moved our son, Dylan, into his dorm room at Mercer University. That was 14 years ago and I haven’t thought of that sweat, tear and emotion-filled day for a long time, but it all came back so vividly…What a long and indeed, poignant day!

Dylan was assigned to a third floor room in the oldest dorm on campus – a beautiful, architecturally-rich structure without air conditioning. Mercer is in Macon, which means it was hot as Hades on that mid-August move-in day. The stairs were narrow and steep and there wasn’t a hint of breeze blowing through any of the windows which were all open wide.  

His new roommate, Ryan, was moving in at the same time and after a few trips up and down those stairs, it became clear both young men were outfitted with the exact same gear – right down to the big, round, nearly industrial-sized fan still bearing a Sam’s Club price tag.

It turned out Ryan’s mom read the same book I did about how to outfit your kid for college and (at least attempt to) let go emotionally. Empty Nest…Full Heart: The Journey from Home to College is by Andrea Van Steenhouse who is a psychologist and mother. My dad heard about the book on her radio talk show and knowing how hard letting go is for me, he sent me a copy. I don’t know how Ryan’s mom found the book, but it was obvious we had both read it carefully, made notes and taken it to heart.  

The big fans were just the ice-breaker we all needed. The boys got a good laugh out of each mom’s super-sized interpretation of “fan,” as listed in the “if heat  is a consideration” part of the “gear” chapter. 

“My mom’s a real over-reactor,” Dylan told Ryan, who replied, “Mine is, too, in a major way.”

Both of us moms felt better, knowing that our sons were rooming with another son who knew that help - as well as too many phone calls, excessive supplies and a mother’s sixth sense - were only about a hundred miles away. We agreed that if either boy needed anything, we’d both be there and that softened the blow of the impending “Good Bye,” at least a little bit.

We offered to stay for pizza and the boys graciously declined, opting to have their first pizza together without their sniffling moms in the room…Then it was time to say that, “Good Bye.” With tears welling up in our eyes, both of us moms tried to be brave and strong, and we both failed miserably, ending up sobbing in our sons’ arms, wishing we could turn back time and make them little again. I haven’t had that hard of a time driving away since I dropped my then-really-little boy off for the first day of kindergarten. There were a lot of tears then, too…   

Much later we heard that after pizza, Ryan and Dylan popped all of the microwave popcorn both moms had packed – enough for the whole semester - in their twin microwave ovens, then made a fabulous game of blowing the popcorn back and forth, up and down the long, wide, hot dorm hallway with their matching Sam’s Club fans. That activity engaged the interest of the entire third floor of freshly dropped- off Mercer men and in the process friendships began that evening that remain intact today.  

Dylan, Ryan and several of their third floor dorm buddies spend their second year at Mercer in Wales, opting to use the “recommended items to pack” list issued by the Mercer Study Abroad Team, rather than what their mothers wanted them to take. The boys finished their college days at U.G.A. in separate, yet equally over-equipped apartments, outfitted by their still over-attentive mothers.  

When my son married, I turned his care over to his wife – a huge relief for all three of us – and they seem to be living happily ever after.

I do recommend Steenhouse’s book for any parent who is facing having to say that big “Good Bye.” You can get it on Amazon and even though it’s a bit dated, the information still applies. I try to get a copy for every over-attentive-trying-to-let-go parent I know to read during that busy Senior year because dorm move- in time will be here before they know it.   

 

As for the huge fan? It’s still in our attic. After all, someday we might have a grandchild who ends up at Mercer and he or she is going to need a fan.