Son's Time Away an Education for All

A common interview question is, “Where do you see yourself in five years?” This week, I caught a glimpse of my future five years from now.

My 14-year old son traveled to New Orleans this week for a service project with my church’s senior high youth group. Including the travel time, the group was gone for a total of ten days. When my son and I discussed the trip several months ago, I imagined that it would be an amazing, eye-opening experience for him. Little did I know that it would also be an awakening for me.

This isn’t the first time my son has been away for more than one night. In sixth grade, his class spent five days at Camp Squanto in Plymouth. Actually, the class left on a Monday morning and returned by early afternoon on Friday, so it wasn’t even really five days. But that was my first taste of having a child away for more than just a one-night sleepover at a friend’s.  I filled in the time by completely redecorating his room, getting rid of old toys and school papers and covering over the childish yellow paint on the walls with a more mature shade of “Yarmouth Blue”. Other parents whose kids had been to Squanto had called it a life-changing experience, but apparently the change didn’t extend to him doing his own laundry or making his own lunch because I’m still doing those things for him today.

Fast forward two years and I found myself fighting back tears as I sent him off on a 1500-mile bus ride to a place I’ve never been myself. Though the chaperones were folks I trust implicitly, I couldn’t help worrying about things like bus accidents or rest area abductions. Unlike Squanto, where the kids were forbidden to use cell phones, this time I was able to stay in contact with my son via text or the occasional phone call. 

Some of the texts I received were funny. On the long bus ride: “How big IS Virginia?” On chores at the hostel: “Had to clean the lavatory.  THE HORROR!  THE HORROR!”  On trying new foods: OMG, Mom, eating Louisiana home-style etoufee.  So amazing!”.   Some texts were a little disconcerting, “Saw a dead roach earlier” and “Saw a lizard almost get shredded by an AC fan”. And the one from the youth group leader: “Taught Xander how to use a power skill saw today…he did awesome…he seems to be having a great time…he is going to come home a changed person.”   Thinking about the power saw, I’m praying that “changed” doesn’t mean any missing fingers.

This week changed me as well. My younger son had ten days of undivided attention, a first for us both. We had a picnic in the park, a day of walking around Boston, and plenty of quality time to just enjoy each other’s company. The absence of an older sibling meant no fighting over the television or the computer, and I found I rarely had to raise my voice the entire week. 

It took a couple of days for me to remember to set only three places at the table, and each morning I automatically glanced into my older son’s room, fully expecting to see the giant lump burrowed under the covers in his bed. By mid-week it hit me:  This is what life will be like in five years, when he’s at college. And five years after that, both kids will be out of the house. This is a thought that’s been creeping around the edges of my mind recently, but I’ve always been able to push it away. This week, the reality hit home.

There are a number of reasons why I am thankful my son had this opportunity: He made new friends and traveled to a place I might never have taken him. He learned new skills and the importance of helping those less fortunate. He took a crucial step in becoming more independent and self-sufficient. And his absence reminded his parents that time is all too fleeting, and that each moment of the next few years should be cherished and appreciated.

That’s my five-year plan, anyway.

Wordsmith Finds Numbers Crunching None Too Taxing

Did you send your taxes in on time?

I ask this because for the past 10 weeks I’ve been working part-time for an accounting firm.  People close to me will find this hilarious because when it comes to numbers, I’m an idiot savant (minus the savant).  I barely scraped by high school geometry, which was the end of the number line for me.  So the idea of me working in a place dedicated to the art of debits and credits is pretty ludicrous.

Luckily for the clients, I wasn’t actually doing any math other than calculating my work hours and even then I made mistakes.  My duties were strictly limited to answering the phone, scanning tax documents and filing. While I may not have mad math skills, I do have more than forty years of expertise using the phone.  Just ask my kids who constantly interrupt my conversations.    I’m perfectly adept at keeping my voice professional while making angry, threatening gestures towards my children.

Filing proved to be a breeze as well.  If there’s one thing I do know, it’s my ABC’s.  I even managed to stop humming the alphabet song in my head after the first couple of weeks.  If someone quizzed me on the spot, I could tell them that “t” comes after “n” but before “v” in a matter of seconds…well, maybe five seconds. Darn alphabet song!

Scanning proved to be the most fascinating of my duties.  The scanner was a freestanding, fancy-schmancy behemoth the size of the Statue of Liberty, with more bells and whistles than the iPad3.  But what interested me most was the paperwork I was scanning.

We all know the three things people don’t discuss (out loud) are religion, politics and finances.  10 weeks of scanning people’s W-2 forms, property tax statements, investment statements and charitable receipts painted an intimate look at each person’s life.  Some clients provided paperwork that revealed jaw-dropping amounts of income, while others made me wonder just how they make ends meet.  The slips of paper and receipts we provide to our accountants equal more than just what we owe to the federal government.  They illuminate who lost a spouse within the last year, whose children are caring for their elderly parents, who gambles way too much and who is lucky enough to enjoy a vacation home.  The two types of paperwork that disturbed me most were death certificates and college tuition statements.  The death certificate shows who died, time of death and cause of death, but they also prompted me to wonder about how that person lived, what they accomplished and whom they left behind.

The tuition forms were even more sobering.  It’s one thing to hear tuition costs bandied about in the abstract; seeing a printed bill for thousands of dollars from even the most mediocre college was enough to make me consider applying for a lunch-lady job at Harvard for when my oldest son comes of age.

It was also very telling to see how clients present their documents.  Some brought in perfectly organized, singled-sided 8.5 X 11 inch copies of their paperwork, making it easy for me to zip through the scan.  Others brought in a mishmash of every tiny receipt, post-it note and scrap of paper, stapled together, wrapped in rubber bands and dumped into large grocery bags or giant boxes.  One glance at a shopping bag and I’d feel like that character in the Edvard Munch painting, The Scream.  Over the past few weeks I’ve developed an aversion to unusual sized documents, double sided pages and anything stapled.  In that order.

The best part of my 10-week stint was working with the staff.  I love the show “Myth Busters”, so it was a personal pleasure for me to bust the myth of the “boring accountant” stereotype.   People think of accountants as dreary, humorless worker drones who never crack a smile.  I can honestly say that the accountants in my office were some of the funniest, friendliest folks I’ve had the pleasure with which to work.  In addition to their wonderful sense of humor, they have a deep appreciation for the job I performed.  The office managers would thank me sincerely each day when I left for home.  And on my birthday, which comes an inconvenient week before the tax deadline, they stopped work for 10 minutes to sing “Happy Birthday” and serve cake.

To sum up, I’d like to make note of the fact that I give sincere appreciation to my cohorts in currency for adding balance to my life.  I hope that I have been an asset rather than a liability; in short a credit to your business.  I’d be pleased if you didn’t write me off when next year’s tax season rolls around.

Just don’t ask me to add anything.

Feeling of Home is from the People Inside It

This past weekend I traveled to my parent’s home in New Jersey for the Easter holiday.  Thomas Wolfe wrote the novel, “You Can’t Go Home Again”, and I understand the reference: When I travel to my childhood home, my heart gets a lift the minute I see the “Welcome to New Jersey” sign at the top of the Garden State Parkway.  My parents still live in the home in which I grew up.  The room we stay in during our visits is the same one in which I slept as a child.  I am surrounded by reminders of the 18 years I spent in the house, as well as the countless visits in the 30 years since I moved out.  But I can never quite recapture that same feeling I had as a child; innocent and blissfully ignorant of the responsibilities I would assume when reaching adulthood.

On average I visit my folks four or five times a year:  Easter, summertime, Thanksgiving or Christmas (we alternate) and perhaps one or two other visits shoehorned in over long weekends or school vacation.  I love spending time with my parents, my sisters and their children.  But in recent years, my visits have been tinged with a feeling of nostalgic melancholy.  I can no longer ignore the fact that my parents are getting on in years and that our time together may be drawing to a close.

My mother is 76 and my father is 81.  Both have slowed down significantly in the past few years.  While my mother is still active in church, bible study, chorus and exercise classes, my father’s health issues have impacted his mobility.  He’s unsteady on his feet and gets winded walking from one room to another.  His mind is as razor sharp as ever; in between zipping through the New York Times Daily crossword puzzle, he devours stacks of books and magazines.  But I worry as I watch him cross a room, grabbing his cane or a piece of furniture for support, wheezing slightly as he settles himself down in his favorite chair.

It doesn’t help matters that on this visit, my father presented my sisters and me with our own copies of his “book”: a comprehensive binder, complete with a table of contents, that lists every investment, life insurance policy, bank account, funeral plot or any other info we might need for that unthinkable time in the future when one or both of our parents pass away.  While I applaud my father’s unparalleled organizational skills, the binder is yet one more physical reminder that, despite my most fervent wish, my parents will not go on forever.  I liken myself to Scarlett O’Hara, saying to myself, “I won’t think about that today,” but I can’t stick my head in the sand forever.

During our visit my father received the unfortunate news that his best friend from childhood had passed away.  I watched his face change as my mother relayed the message from his widow, and after hanging up the phone he remarked, “We’ve known each other since first grade.” Another one of his friends passed away just a couple of years ago, and though he would never say anything I know these deaths weigh on his mind.

How many more visits will we have together? That’s the thought that crosses my mind as we pull out of their driveway and head back to our own home.  Will this be the last time I see one of them?  How long until I get that phone call myself? 

My parents halfheartedly joke about what will happen if one passes before the other.  My father warns us that my mother has had virtually no experience with the financial end of things and will need a great deal of help from us children: hence “the book”.  My mother, who has done all of the cooking, cleaning and other household duties, says that if she passes first my father will immediately begin an affair with Marie Callendar (purveyor of frozen dinners).  Either scenario is unfathomable to me, as I cannot imagine a world without them.

Many of my friends have lost one or both parents in recent years.  With each passing, I’ve said a prayer of comfort for my friend, and a prayer of thanks for myself.  I consider myself blessed that I still have both parents and both siblings.  But I know this can’t last forever.  In the meantime, I try to cherish each visit, knowing that it may be months before I see them again, praying that in the interim they manage to stay safe and healthy. 

You can go home again.  It may not be the same as it was 30 years ago, or 20 or even 10, but that doesn’t matter.  As long as my parents are alive there, it will always be home to me.

Upcoming Birthday Puts the Years in Review

What have I accomplished over the last ten years?

This weekend I turn 49. It’s amazing to think that in one year, I’ll be a half-century old. I think back to when I was turning 39, and all the things I had hoped to accomplish over the next decade. Perhaps it would be easier for me to list all the things that I haven’t accomplished in that time.

On my 39^th birthday, I remember thinking, “I’d like to be in the best physical shape of my life by the time I hit forty.” Guess what: that didn’t happen. It didn’t happen by 41, 42, 45 or even 48. In that time, my metabolism slowed down, I became less active and now menopause is crouching around the corner, waiting to pounce.  There’s no way I can reach my fitness goal by the time I reach 49, but 50 is a nice round number. I may not be in the best shape of my life by then, but I can aim for a more realistic goal: be as healthy as I possibly can be.

I didn’t write a bestselling novel or an award-winning screenplay. During the last decade, Stephenie Myers, Suzanne Collins and J.K. Rowling have been busy reaping the benefits of their hugely successful book series, while I…have not.  As with exercising, it takes discipline to make the commitment to write every day. However, over the last few years, I’ve made the commitment to write something every week and I’ve managed to do that without fail and without repeating myself. In that time I’ve tried to entertain readers with my stories and opinions on everything from Christmas letters and Christmas sweaters to the Kardashians, motherhood, pop culture, religion and a number of other topics that affect our community. That’s got to count for something, right?

I haven’t taken my children to Disney World, something I always thought my husband and I would do “someday”, when the kids were a little older and we had money to spare. Somehow that day never came. My children are 11 and 14 and they still don’t care much for amusement park rides, so I think we were better off taking them to places like Niagara Falls and Washington DC. Besides, my husband and I are the only two Americans who have never set foot in Florida.  Why ruin our perfect record?

Over the last ten years, I haven’t managed to convert my agnostic husband to Christianity. I know, that’s kind of a lofty goal. My mother was a Christian who married an agnostic and I did the exact same thing. But my husband has been nothing but supportive in my decision to build a solid faith foundation for my children by joining a church. I’ve noticed recently that my husband has offered up my prayers to his friends in need. I tell my children that “…God has a plan for Dad”, and I honestly believe that’s true.

Ten years ago I was a mother of a four-year-old and a one-year old. I questioned my mothering skills daily and wondered if my children would turn out all right or if my own inadequacies would screw them up for life. Ok, that hasn’t changed.

At 39 I was new to town, had only a few friends and often felt isolated from my community. Today I am blessed with a group of wonderful, supportive friends and I feel as much a part of this town as the library, the middle school or the playground. 

So, I’m not a marathon-running, organic-eating, bestselling author. So what? They say 50 is the new 40 (at least, that’s what 50-year olds are saying). That means I’ve still got time. But unlike 10 years ago, I’m less inclined to waste as much of it.