In pursuit of a pen, I reached into the junk drawer (grumbled about cleaning it out) and picked up a mechanical pencil with no top, wrapped in tape, and the cylinder was empty. Harper, our 8-year-old neighbor, was over and said, “Why does the pencil look like that?” I held up the plastic pencil remains, fiddling with them in my hands, and said, “Well, when my son lived here, he would recycle these and use them for projects he would build.”
Whoa…Past tense. “…when my son lived here …” I heard it.
Then I felt it. My heart did that sinking thing when it secretly knows the past is, well, past…and life within the walls of our home will never be the same.
That was then…
I thought back to when the kids were little. We’d set up obstacle courses in the backyard with logs to balance on, hula hoops to maneuver through, and barriers to tackle. My husband managed the stopwatch, narrating along the way, and I held the video camera–because in my mind documenting meant the moment wouldn’t (couldn’t) go away.
Our oldest son would go first, his eyes planning the most efficient, logical, and fastest path, no ladder too tall, no tunnel too narrow, no risk too great. Our youngest son would follow, arms flailing, adding cartwheels, leaps, and spins along his path to ensure the most fun could be had on the journey. Finally, our daughter, the oldest, would lean out of the screen door, Harry Potter book in hand, “What’s the fastest time?” she’d ask while slipping on any shoes that were handy and pushing her curls away from her face with the back of her hand the way she does. She’d quickly survey the course, hustle to the starting line next to her brothers, and yell, “READY Papa!” Up, over, in, and out, she dashed through the course with her signature audible breathing, making it clear she was working to win. Once she held the new record, the screen door closed with a bang, book, glasses, and our current winner once inside again. The boys would then clamor to surpass her time, and the cycle continued.
I play the kids’ childhood moments in my mind’s Viewfinder all the time–clicking through the first days of school, family trips, awards won, races lost. I think about who leaves toothpaste in the sink, who can tolerate “all that crunching,” and who will empty the top rack of the dishwasher. One common thread – as if running the backyard course, they have all become unstoppable-each blazing their own trail, no matter the obstacles.
This is now…
We had our kids 15 and 18 months apart. Total 3. So…in the last two years, we’ve had two high school graduates and in 2024, our youngest will flip his tassel as we say farewell to all of the high school pomp and circumstance.
And as quickly as they graced our every single day for 18 years, off they go.
As our first two started their journeys outside the context of our family, it was beyond hard. But all I could picture was our unstoppable daughter out in the world discussing the current issues and immigration policies with peers, laughing heartily at her friends’ jokes, and making Spotify song lists with her new people.
She is right where she needs to be. But boy do I miss her.
Then our oldest son, who always came out to greet us, carry in the groceries, and asked SO MANY “Can I?” questions – the stamina of a cheetah, he never tired of hearing, “No.” He’s the guy to call when the car won’t start, the path needs clearing or the couch won’t fit through the awkward doorway. He follows Mark Twain’s words, “ I have never let my schooling interfere with my education.”
He, too, is right where he needs to be. But boy, do I miss him.
Our youngest is our mainstay. The traditionalist. He knows where the holes are in the wall to hang the birthday banner draping the kitchen window five times a year, where the angel food cake pan is kept (and how to use it), and is always clad in workout clothes as if a “sporting” emergency could spring up anytime, he’s the kid that will be there on your happiest or loneliest day and come loaded with snacks and goofy jokes.
Soon, he’ll pack up, and our nest will be very empty
Boy, I’m going to miss that nest.
What I’ve learned:
Back in August, when packing up the kids for college, I stopped and really listened to the sounds of our morning. I held onto them with clenched fists because somehow through the cacophony of yells and stomps, blenders and constantly running water came the harmony of our home. But eventually, even the best of bands have artists who seek standalone stardom. Simon split from Garfunkel and still performs today with a little less hair and a lot of notoriety. So as they should, our family paths have split. I struggle to marvel at the space between us because letting go is really, really hard. Thankfully we have our stories, love, and of course, Facetime.
Thanks for joining me,
Lucretia
“It is not what you do for your children, but what you have taught them to do for themselves that will make them successful human beings.”
This Friday, I will be home with my parents. I thought I’d repost a story I wrote a few years ago… the changes they’ve gone through, mentally, physically, and emotionally, over the years are evident. Still, they are eternally guided by faith, hope, love, and my super supportive sisters.
Repost from 2023 Lenten Reflections #4
I am one of four sisters. The youngest and farthest from our parents. Growing up, people would refer to me as “the baby,” and mom would swoop in like an eagle – wings flapping and correct them in her unyielding tone, “Nooooo, she’s the youngest”. At the time, mom was busy raising four independent girls, and the term “baby” was reserved solely for those in diapers, which we were all out of by age two.
As in most families, we each had our textbook roles as siblings: the oldest – reliable and overly cautious (as kids we barely glimpsed at the Grand Canyon as she herded us like a Border Collie away from the edge), the middle sisters – a tad rebellious, with large social circles (probably helped that they had a cool 1957 Ford truck to drive), and me fun-loving and easy-going perhaps a bit lazy. Now that Mom and Dad are 84 and 87, respectively, (AMAZING! I KNOW!) life has changed a bit, and we have adjusted our roles.
That being said, when it came to caring for them as they waltzed hand in hand through their later years, I was not the daughter to step up to the helm and guide the ship. There’s something called “Seagull Syndrome,” where the sibling who lives the farthest away tends to visit, poop on everyone’s ideas about caretaking, and fly home. I try not to do that but rather be the “fun uncle” type daughter who says yes to everything (“Yes, cookies for breakfast counts…yes, we can binge watch Blue Bloods until midnight”) , and then I head home.
Thankfully, with three sisters and the Catholic faith as our north star, one of my sisters retired from her job and moved back home to care for them. With a Master’s Degree in psychology, 30 years of experience managing engineers, and a heart of gold, she was clearly qualified and has made what is possibly the noblest of all jobs look easy. She’s the Helen Keller of caretaking. She knows where mom hurts and how to heal, she knows when dad needs to go for a drive or use the wood splitter, and she knows exactly when they both need a nap. Although they both say they “don’t nap”.
As a bunch (think Brady’s with attitude), we each contribute what we can. My oldest sister is always on call and will drop anything to be present. Outsourcing as needed, and sending Pedialyte, Boost, or whatever is needed via Amazon. My sister, closest to me in age, will jump in and clean, manage all outside work, call daily, and do more between 10 pm and 2 am than most people do all day. We all have our jobs, whether it’s calling to tell them stories of our day, making sure mom takes her medicine, or dad sits down to rest. But my sister, the primary caretaker, has developed a skillful management of herself and our parents, and for that, we are all grateful.
How does she do it?
Always reading and learning, she finds the perfect balance between caretaking and respecting our parents’ need for independence. In the book Being Mortal, author Atul Gawande posits that whether a teen or a senior, they both value autonomy and crave the feeling of purpose and worth every day. So, when Dad, who recently stopped driving, wants to drive the truck from the front yard to the back, we let him buckle up and go…better to help him remember he still can, even if just a little bit.
Equally, when mom wants to give the next-door dog, Ned, leftovers through the fence (even though he’s been fed), she takes care of dear old Ned. I read a story about Bill Thomas, director of a nursing home in NY, who brought in pets for the residents to nurture because he says giving people something to care for makes them more active and alert. Thus, my parents’ surplus of suet, bird seed, dog bones, and corn.
Being part of the “Silent Generation,” our parents are workers. Raised in the Depression Era, everything is recycled, reused, repurposed, and appreciated. Growing up, wood piles were (and still are) precious commodities, prom dresses were made by mom (!), and going out to eat at “The Royal Fork” Buffet was a really big deal.
Luckily, Dad starts each morning by saying, “Another good day, right, Mom?!” Mom replies in her realistic tone, placing her coffee in the microwave again, “Okay, Dad”. They do this, call each other “Mom and Dad,” the titles God bestowed on them that they cherish and will use day after day until there are no more days.
During my visit this past week, I wrote down some notes. As they are specific to my parents, I believe the lessons can be applied to taking care of any senior or otherwise. I wrote this list for my sisters, so it may read like a journal, but I thought it might help someone out there.
I strongly believe “everyone needs a destination.”
Respect what I call “the triangle”: Church, the doctor’s office, and the grocery store. These are their familiar stomping grounds – weave in a few other outings (restaurant, casino, a walk), and it gives the day purpose.
Note: If you have to reschedule a doctor’s appointment, do it. Better to take them when they are prepared and feeling okay than stressed and apprehensive.
Listen to their stories – it connects them to a familiar time
My mom’s stories at the age of 14 are formative years and the spotlight of her daily memory.
When Mom talks about giving up the St. John’s College scholarship offer she received, I think about the huge sacrifice she made for her family by working and supporting them when Grandpa was sick.
Mom will remind you of the way grandma and grandpa warmed water on the stove for their baths and how they sang songs like “When the Moon Comes Over the Mountain” in perfect harmony.
Dad will tell you stories in Spanglish as vividly as if you were there.
Speak loudly
Especially if you are reading a crossword clue to dad or the jumble letters, or driving and mom is in the back seat, or telling a story, or or or…
Diet and meals – let them eat cake!
Mom will eat more and digest better if the food is cut into small pieces.
Gatorade powder (more economical per Dad) is rejuvenating. Stir thoroughly or he’ll tell you there is “perfectly good wasted sugar at the bottom of the glass” and refill it.
Happy Hour is sacred; respect it. Open a beer for Dad and poor Mom’s Pedialyte. Place cheese, gluten-free crackers, and fruit on a plate and enjoy.
The “Big” meal is at 3:00 pm.
Dove Bars – we bought eight boxes at the commissary – it’s a highlight of the day…and a fair bribe to get mom to eat.
Outdoor Activities – Emerson said that the happiest person on earth is the one who learns from nature the lessons of worship. So walk outside a lot.
Mom will always have things to show you around the yard, enjoy the tour. Upon my arrival, she said, “Come meet our new family members.” I went out back and was greeted by 24 cranes who began squawking at me as I approached the fence. “If we go to the poor house,” Mom said, “it’s because Dad and your sister keep feeding these guys so much corn”.
Watching Dad move wood from the ground to the truck to the splitter and stack it is as exhausting as doing it yourself.
Dad will work harder than any 20-year-old you’ve ever met and wonder why “me duele de todo” (everything hurts).
Later, talk Dad through why “todo duele” (everything hurts) and gently remind him he is 87 years old and must pace himself.
Indoor Weather – Dress for summer
It will always be warm inside Mom and Dad’s house. Our brilliant sister has the thermostat programmed to plummet to 72 degrees. (Highly Recommend!) To set the thermostat, press the bottom button on the left once, then walk away nonchalantly. Mom will later turn it up to 81 degrees. Once you are drenched in sweat, repeat the process.
The fireplace will be used if the weather is 70 degrees or below.
Indoor Activities –
Mom thinks her hearing is excellent, but according to a hearing test, it’s not. So, before watching Jeopardy, Mom will ask you to “turn up the volume because Dad can’t hear!”
Mom’s filter has gone from almost there to MIA, so when watching Jeopardy, be ready for a roasting of Ken Jennings, who, according to Mom, “acts like he knows everything” …ummm…he did win about a million times.
With Dad’s macular degeneration, he is still able to enjoy and make out the scenery when watching the Alaska shows. “Good hard workers!” he says. He also loves “Nat Geo”, “The History Channel”, and “The Weather Channel”. The more dramatic, the better with the weather.
Puzzles for mom…have one set up and another on deck at all times. This is her quiet space.
The Newspaper
Holding the newspaper in their hands brings comfort, familiarity, and joy. Even if Dad can’t see enough to read it.
Let Mom read the paper to Dad in the morning while he slurps his way through the coffee and pastries or cookies. Tread lightly, this is their time.
When Dad shakes out the newspaper, he’ll say, “Let’s see who’s left and let’s see who moved out of town.” Then he’ll hand me the obituary section to read aloud “slowly”. I announce the names as if they were crossing the stage at a commencement ceremony, or rather, St. Peter’s gate.
The crossword and Jumble are great mental gymnastic exercises and keep their minds active.
Top 10 Do’s and Don’ts
Don’t do laundry. That’s mom’s gig.
If Dad is struggling with something, DO take over and help.
If mom is struggling with something, leave her alone. She “CAN DO IT!”
Don’t move the scissors, pencils, coffee, Kleenex, or blankets. Life is now done by feel and rote memory.
Do agree more.
Do let Dad cheer up Mom. Dad equals levity.
Do help them remember: Dad may not remember what he ate the night before – i.e., “Oh, we ate enchiladas last night? Did I enjoy them?” “Yes, Dad, you loved them.” “Oh, good!”
OR “Did we watch Blue Bloods last night?” Yes, Dad, you fell asleep in the last five minutes. “Did I enjoy it?” Yes, Dad – you loved it.“Oh, good!”
Do answer the phone mean people prey on the elderly.
Don’t ask them, “Do you remember when…” just retell the story.
What I’ve learned:
Being far away is hard. Wondering if this is the phone call is hard, hard, hard. Saying goodbye to them at the airport when I leave is hard…homesickness in my fifties looks a lot different than it used to, and I mentally prep myself for the lifelong homesickness yet to come.
But I love that God and Grace and Mercy exist. I love that when I cry and truly let out my fear of their absence, the tears feel like a Baptism. I love that I have my sisters. How to care for those who cared for us…I love that we are like a pit crew, repairing what is broken, filling up our parents’ tank with all the love we possibly can because we’re on the clock. I love that we take care of each other.
Thanks for joining me,
Lucretia
On writing…
“You are going to feel like hell if you never write the stuff that is tugging on the sleeves in your heart–your stories, visions, memories, songs: your truth, your version of things, in your voice. That is really all you have to offer us, and it’s why you were born.”
In pursuit of a pen, I reached into the junk drawer (grumbled about cleaning it out) and picked up a mechanical pencil with no top, wrapped in tape, and the cylinder was empty. Harper, our 8-year-old neighbor was over and said, “Why does the pencil look like that?” I held up the plastic pencil remains fiddling with them in my hands and said, “Well, when my son lived here, he would recycle these and use them for projects he would build.”
Whoa…Past tense. “…when my son lived here …” I heard it.
Then I felt it. My heart did that sinking thing when it secretly knows the past is, well, past…and life within the walls of our home will never be the same.
That was then…
I thought back to when the kids were little. We’d set up obstacle courses in the backyard with logs to balance on, hula hoops to maneuver through, and barriers to tackle. My husband managed the stopwatch narrating along the way, and I held the video camera–because in my mind documenting meant the moment wouldn’t (couldn’t) go away.
Our oldest son would go first, his eyes planning the most efficient, logical, and fastest path, no ladder too tall, no tunnel too narrow, no risk too great. Our youngest son would follow, arms flailing, adding cartwheels, leaps, and spins along his path to ensure the most fun could be had on the journey. Finally, our daughter, the oldest, would lean out of the screen door, Harry Potter book in hand “What’s the fastest time?” she’d ask while slipping on any shoes that were handy and pushing her curls away from her face with the back of her hand the way she does. She’d quickly survey the course, hustle to the starting line next to her brothers and yell, “READY Papa!” Up, over, in, and out, she dashed through the course with her signature audible breathing making it clear she was working to win. Once she held the new record, the screen door closed with a bang, book, glasses, and our current winner once inside again. The boys would then clamor to surpass her time and the cycle continued.
I play the kids’ childhood moments in my mind’s Viewfinder all the time–clicking through the first days of school, family trips, awards won, races lost. I think about who leaves toothpaste in the sink, who can tolerate “all that crunching” and who will empty the top rack of the dishwasher. One common thread – as if running the backyard course, they have all become unstoppable-each blazing their own trail, no matter the obstacles.
This is now…
We had our kids 15 and 18 months apart. Total 3. So…in the last two years, we’ve had two high school graduates and in 2024, our youngest will flip his tassel as we say farewell to all of the high school pomp and circumstance.
And as quickly as they graced our every, single day for 18 years, off they go.
As our first two started their journeys outside the context of our family, it was beyond hard. But all I could picture was our unstoppable daughter out in the world discussing the current issues and immigration policies with peers, laughing heartily at her friends’ jokes, and making Spotify song lists with her new people.
She is right where she needs to be. But boy do I miss her.
Then our oldest son who always came out to greet us, carry in the groceries, and asked SO MANY “Can I?” questions – the stamina of a cheetah, he never tired of hearing, “No.” He’s the guy to call when the car won’t start, the path needs clearing or the couch won’t fit through the awkward doorway. He follows Mark Twain’s words, “ I have never let my schooling interfere with my education.”
He too is right where he needs to be. But boy do I miss him too.
Our youngest is our mainstay. The traditionalist. He knows where the holes are in the wall to hang the birthday banner draping the kitchen window five times a year, where the angel food cake pan is kept (and how to use it), and is always clad in workout clothes as if a “sporting” emergency could spring up anytime, he’s the kid that will be there on your happiest or loneliest day and come loaded with snacks and goofy jokes.
Soon he’ll pack up and our nest will be very empty.
Boy, I’m going to miss that nest.
I recently read an article about a killer whale mother who, instead of having more offspring, decided to take care of her one son for over twenty years. Male orcas are massive, not as nimble as their moms, and require a lot of food. This particular orca mom would typically dive down for salmon, bring one up and split it with her son. Once the male relies on his mom to supply him with the extra food, his dependency becomes too great to survive on his own. Therefore, in these situations, it is said when an orca mother dies, her son will also die within the next couple of years.
This story resonated with me as I thought about how much I would love for our kids to all be here, at home, together again. Playing outside, laughing, competing, and crushing obstacles. Sure, I’ve done my share of enabling by bringing the forgotten saxophone or “co-writing” an essay or two, but I’ll be damned if these kids aren’t ready for this one shot at life. Therefore, unlike the mother orca, I am NOT splitting my salmon with them anymore, I don’t care how much protein it has!
What I’ve learned:
Back in August, when packing up the kids for college, I stopped and really listened to the sounds of our morning. I held onto them with clenched fists because somehow through the cacophony of yells and stomps, blenders and constantly running water came the harmony of our home. But eventually, even the best of bands have artists who seek standalone stardom. Simon split from Garfunkel and still performs today with a little less hair and a lot of notoriety. So as they should, our family paths have split. I struggle to marvel at the space between us because letting go is really, really hard. Thankfully we have our stories, love, and of course, Facetime.
Thanks for joining me,
Lucretia
“It is not what you do for your children, but what you have taught them to do for themselves that will make them successful human beings.”
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