A Ring for the Empty Nest

by Amy Ruhlin

I recently lost one of my favorite rings. A "mothers ring," it was called: a band of studded white gold with a small, peridot gemstone in the setting. The peridot is the birthstone for August, the month that my son was born. I wore it on my right hand every single day for the last 17 years, along with a second, identical ring, except for the aquamarine gemstone in the setting, which is the birthstone for March, the month that my daughter was born.

The rings were handmade by a jeweler in Texas when my children were very young. I cherished those bands of gold and I loved how they looked on my hand. I wore them as a celebration of my children and of motherhood. And then one day this spring, I looked down at my hand, and the peridot ring was gone. It had slipped off of my finger without me even noticing. It was a strange thing to happen after all of these years. The ring had remained snug and safe on my hand through all of the rough and tumble years of child-rearing, and then as if on cue, it quietly slipped away. For a while, I continued to wear just the one ring, my daughter's birthstone, but it didn't feel or look right without the peridot by its side.

"Maybe it's a sign," my son said to me with a grin. He knew that his old mom had been working hard at letting go. He knew that I had been preparing myself for the empty nest, which will be here in three short weeks, when he goes away to college. He understood, at least in some vague way, that I have been reclaiming parts of myself, pieces that went underground during the intense mothering years. Years when I needed to focus most of my energies on raising him and his sister; years when I had to put aside some of my own creativity, ambitions, wants and needs. I guess its called sacrifice. It's what we do for our kids and it is good. It has meaning and it takes us out of our own small selves.

I was devastated by the loss of the ring. I tracked down the jewelers in Texas and asked them if they could make me another one. I even sent them a photo of the ring that I still have, my daughter's birthstone, so that they could match the two, just like they did when my kids were small.

But then, I discovered an old ring in the back of my jewelry drawer: a band of yellow gold with a beautiful diamond-shaped garnet in the setting. The garnet is the birthstone for January, the month that I was born. My mother gave it to me when I was in my 20s, before I had children, before I was a mother. I had forgotten about it. I had even just about forgotten that the garnet is my birthstone or that I even have a birthstone.

A few days after I found the garnet my husband asked, "So, did you get in touch with the jewelers in Texas?"

"Yeah," I sighed.

He waited for me to continue, and when I didn't, he probed further. "Well, are you gonna order the mothers ring?"

"Nah, I don't think so." I told him.

I let a few minutes pass, for dramatic effect. And then I said, "I'm really liking the look of this garnet on my hand." I held my right hand out for him to see. "I think I found it for a reason. I think it's here to remind me of something. I think it is reminding me of me."

My husband is used to me talking like this, so he kindly smiled and nodded his head in agreement.

I plan on wearing my garnet next week when we drop our son off at college. And I will raise my ring high into the air as I wave goodbye to him. And though I know that I will feel sad, I will also know that it is now time for me. It is now time to wear my own birthstone. It is now time to celebrate my own self and to cherish these years of freedom that I will have with my husband in our empty nest.

Until, of course, it is time for a grandmothers ring.

I Thought We Were In This Together

by Amy Ruhlin

My husband has grown a beard. I've known him for 30 years and he has not once, not ever, tried to grow any type of facial hair at all.

Our 20-year-old daughter became concerned when she saw it. She said that surely he would shave soon; it is so unlike him to grow a beard.

And then she asked me if this could be his midlife crisis.

"Why, yes," I told her, trying to contain my excitement, "actually, I think it is."

"Well," she said, "if this is the extent of it, then that is good news."

I know that she said this with great relief, even though she said it by text, because she witnessed my own midlife adjustment. She was often in the room as the hormones shifted, the tears spilled and the mood changed.

I agreed with my daughter that her Dad's beard was benign midlife angst. But I was also secretly thrilled. For years, I had been hoping that he would exhibit some mild hysteria so that I didn't look so bad.

My husband is a rock. He is calm and patient and kind and level-headed. And although I love and appreciate these qualities, they made him seem like a saint as he sailed through midlife while I turned into Medusa.

He and I have been together for the majority of our adult lives.

We carved out our careers and moved into full adulthood together in our twenties.

We created a family and built a home together in our thirties.

We entered our forties together and after a few years, I fell apart. But he did not and it didn't seem fair. I thought we were in this together.

I began to toss and turn at night and wake up in sweat while he peacefully snored beside me.

I began to face the reality that I had to let go of my babies because somehow, they grew up.  It was not easy letting go and I struggled. And since my husband was just as involved in raising our children as I was, I assumed that he was struggling too.

"Aren't you sad that the kids aren't little anymore?" I would ask.

"Not all all," he would say. "Those were great times but now they are older and these are good times too."

I was sure he was in denial , so I found old photos of the kids when they were small and adorable and held them up close to his face.

"Look," I'd plead, "doesn't it just kill you that those days are gone?"  But he would only smile and say, "Nah, those were fun days but now we've just moved on to different days. You know, circle of life and all that stuff." He was taking it all in stride and it was maddening.

I began to count the number of grey hairs on my head and I noticed that my husband didn't have any. Not one. As I increased the number of highlights in my hair, he combed through the same thick, dark hair he's had since he was 21.

I didn't like this solo trip. But things are looking up now that we are in our fifties.

My husband has grown a beard.  A crazy, woolly, middle-aged , grey beard.

Thank you, honey. I'm so glad we are in this together.

My Wish For An Ordinary Year

by Amy Ruhlin                   

It's New Year's Eve and my husband and I are at home. We are dressed for the evening in our favorite sweats, soft slippers and fuzzy socks. We sit in front of the fireplace as our dinner simmers on the stove. The food smells good and the fire is warm. We open a bottle of red wine and it tastes especially smooth. "It was on sale," my husband says, and we grin as we take our first sips, enjoying the pleasure of a good wine at a cheap price.

Our son walks into the room and shows us that he is dressed for the evening, too."Do I look OK?" he asks. He is wearing dress pants, a collared shirt and a striped bow tie. He is 17 and tall and handsome.

"You look terrific," we say. I can see the excitement in his face as he anticipates his evening: dinner out with a large group of friends and a bonfire at midnight.

Our daughter is away on a trip. She bought a new black dress for the occasion and tried it on for me before she left. She looked young and beautiful and for a moment, I wished I was 20 again and off to New York in a black dress to celebrate the New Year. The morning she left, I could feel her excitement.

When our son leaves the house, my husband and I turn on the television to watch a football game, but the power goes out and our home becomes dark and quiet. We light candles and talk about the past year and our memories seem especially sweet as we share them in a room illuminated from the light of three small flames.

From our window, we can see that the entire street is dark, so we step outside to take a look. There is no electricity for as far as we can see and the light from the moon shows off the bare limbs of the trees in winter. It is cold and the night looks especially beautiful .

Later, when the power is back on, my husband watches the football game while I read in another room. We both have our cell phones nearby in hopes of texts from our children. We don't hear from them, so my husband sends me texts, pictures of himself making silly faces and it makes me laugh. He has been making me laugh for 28 years, but tonight I think he is especially funny and tonight I laugh especially hard.

Sometimes, I miss the excitement of my youth, but tonight I do not. Tonight, I realize that I have exchanged it for something even better: I have exchanged it for the ability to see that our extraordinary times often happen in our most ordinary moments.

And I realize that as this year begins, I am no longer concerned that I have no list of resolutions. Instead, I am content knowing that my only wish is to have a most ordinary year.

Our Own Thanksgiving

by Amy Ruhlin

 

It’s almost Thanksgiving so I climb the stairs to our attic in search of a silver shoebox. I find it stacked between the plastic bag full of Easter baskets and the cardboard box stuffed with Christmas lights.  Instead of shoes, my silver box now holds a small straw turkey and two matching pilgrims.  Each November I take them out and carefully place them on our mantle above the fireplace in honor of the traditional Thanksgiving story.

 I love this time of year and the simplicity of the holiday: food, family, gratitude.  We’ve even served a few traditional Thanksgiving dinners at our house:  mashed potatoes in a glass casserole dish with butter swirled on top, turkey that has been brined and carved, pumpkin pie topped with a dollop of whipped cream.  But during those dinners, my husband and I realized that we were celebrating in this way because that’s what has always been done; because it is what one is supposed to do on Thanksgiving. And we realized that we really didn’t want to spend the holiday in the kitchen.   I get cranky when I cook. Just ask my family. I even get moody when my husband cooks; there is the anticipation of all that pot washing after the meal. So we decided to start our own family tradition, to have our own Thanksgiving story.

For  years we spent the Thanksgiving holidays in amusement parks.  We road log flumes and roller coasters. We ate turkey legs on the run. We stood in line waiting for park shows in cold November rains. It was our version of a feast.  And now those Thanksgiving days spent in the parks are some of our most cherished family memories.

My daughter is now 20 and away at college but she is coming home for the holiday.  My son is a senior in high school and this will be his last Thanksgiving while living at home.   I tell my husband that maybe it is time we had a proper Thanksgiving.  So for a few days we discuss turkeys and table settings.  But then I see that Cirque Du Soleil is in town for the holiday. We buy tickets. My son sees that there is a Thanksgiving Day Marathon downtown. He registers for the race.

This Thanksgiving we will sit together under the Big Top. We will stand together on city streets in the November cold to cheer on our son. We might even find some turkey legs to eat on the run.  We will honor our own Thanksgiving story and I am deeply grateful.

Did You Get A Text Today?

by Amy Ruhlin                                 

Today I decided to watch college football with my husband. I actually don’t much like football. I don’t even fully understand football. But my daughter is in college and my son soon will be too so watching it seems like the appropriate thing to do. My husband has a competitive spirit but I don’t. While he screams things like, “You idiot, you missed the pass!,” I select my favorite team based on who has the best color uniforms. 


We sit on the sofa in front of our flat screen TV with our cell phones and laptops nearby. I tell my husband that I have selected the team that I want to win and he tells me that he is pulling for the other team. This will at least make it interesting.

I find the game entertaining for about ten minutes so I decide to ask my husband a question that I have been asking him daily for the last two years since our daughter went away to college. It is a question that I never imagined I would be asking so frequently. In fact, when my daughter was in high school, she told me about a college friend who always made sure that if she texted one parent she would also text the other because if she did not, one parent would feel left out. I remember telling my daughter that I thought this was ridiculous. I would never indulge in such silly behavior.

“Did you get a text today?” I ask my husband.

He smiles and says, “I got two.”

“Two?" I haven’t gotten any in days!,” I tell him. I pick up my phone and check my messages just to make sure.

“And I’m Skyping at 4pm,” he says with a grin.
 

I look at the TV and I see that his team just scored a touchdown.

“Skyping ?”   “Who set that up?,” I ask.

“I did,” he says.

“Why’d you do that?” I ask.

“Well, it’s been a while since we’ve seen her,” he says.

“Hmpf”, I think. He could have consulted me first. Am I not included in their little Skype party? I am feeling left out.

“Well, I got a facebook message from her yesterday. And she sent me the opening paragraph of that big paper that she’s been working on,” I tell him.

“She did? I’ve been wanting to read that paper!” he says.
 

I glance at the football game and notice that my team just intercepted the ball.

"Well, I think she sends me the things that , you know, are  important to her personally, and she contacts you for the financial and technical stuff," I say.

I see that a football player is limping off the field with a hurt foot.

My husband says, “Nah, she texts me personal stuff too.”

“Well," I tell him, "I’m going to Skype with you.” I actually don’t like to Skype. I hate seeing myself on screen.
 

“That’d be great,” my husband says.

The games end at 4pm. I look at the TV and I see all of the players running onto the field, both teams, together. I look at my husband’s laptop and I see our daughter’s beautiful face filling the screen. And in the bottom corner of the screen I see myself, nestled into the crook of my husband’s arm, a middle aged mom and a middle aged dad , happily talking to their 20 year old daughter, together.

I Am Learning To Be A Parent Of Grown Children

by Amy Ruhlin                           

 

Today my 17-year-old son offered to drive my husband and me to visit our daughter at college. It's only a 90 minute drive from our home. I suggested the trip this morning over breakfast, and our son told us that yes, he would like to go, and that we can take his car.

"It will be fun," he says. "We can listen to my music on the way!"

We are delighted by his enthusiasm and thankful that he still wants to spend a weekend afternoon with his parents.

Before we leave, I make some coffee for the drive.

"You're bringing that in a travel mug with a lid, right mom?," my son says. "Remember, I have cloth seats."

I can suddenly see our old minivan that I drove when our kids were young. I see myself in the driver's seat calling all the shots. I see my children in the backseat, safely strapped in and enjoying the ride. I see their crayons and coloring books spread out on the seat. I see their juice boxes in the sticky cup holders, their gummy bears on the floor and their goldfish-shaped crackers stuffed between the cushions. I want to remind my son of this, but I don't.

"Of course I'll use a travel mug," I say. "Don't worry. I promise I won't spill coffee in your car."

My son makes sure that the lid is secure on my mug, and then we all head out the door, and down the driveway to his car. My husband calls shotgun and I say fine, I'll sit in the back. I want to be a good passenger.

I am slowly learning that the skills required for being a parent of grown children are quite different from those required to parent younger children. The early days seem easy now: change a diaper, adjust a car seat, hang out at the playground. These days require more: listen closely, instruct less, let go, practice restraint... not my strong suits.

We're on the freeway. My son turns on his stereo and slides in one of his CDs. It's rap or hip-hop; I still can't tell the difference, even though he has explained it to me many times. Either way, I don't like it.

"Will you turn that down?" I ask him. He turns the music off.

"It's okay mom. We don't have to listen to music," he says.

We travel along in silence for a while, and from the backseat I can hear my husband giving well-intended, but unsolicited driving advice. I can see that our son has become a good driver: he is cautious and attentive to the rules of the road. I can see the tension in his shoulders, and that he is trying to appease his parents.

I see that he has come on this road trip with us in good faith, hoping that we will recognize that he is fully capable of driving the distance, and that we will, all of us together, enjoy his music, the ride, the day. I see that my husband and I are blowing it.

"Let's listen to the radio," I say.

"You'd like the radio on?," my son asks.

"Sure I would," I say. "Or we can listen to one of your CDs," I add.

He puts in a CD. Thankfully, it's different from the one that he first played. Actually, this CD sounds beautiful.

I think about all of the CDs we listened to over the years in the minivan: narrated children's storybooks, favorite songs from favorite movies, my old rock- n- roll tunes. Sometimes when I played the music too loud the kids would scream, "Mommy turn it down!" I want to remind my son of this, but I don't.

"This CD is great." I say. "Who is it?"

My son proudly tells me the name of the band, and then he and his dad begin a lively conversation about music. I see his shoulders relax, and I notice that my husband stops giving driving tips.

I lay my head against the backseat, and I look out the window. I see round bales of hay on rolling hills. I see a big half-moon in the late afternoon sky. I have my warm coffee in a clean cup holder, and my papers and pens are spread out on the seat. I like it back here.

My son glances over his shoulder at me, and with warmth and affection he asks,

"You doing okay back there mom?"

I can see him as a toddler in his car seat. I look in the rear-view mirror of our minivan and I ask,

"You okay back there buddy?"

"Yeah mommy," he says, "I'm good."

I answer my son: "Yeah, I'm great."

Later that evening, we arrive back home and my son pulls his car to a stop in the driveway.

"Hey mom, don't forget to get your coffee cup and all of your papers out of the car," he tells me.

I can see our old minivan again, with the gummy bears and goldfish crakcers stuck to the seats. I want to remind him, but instead, I say,

"I've got everything," and I climb out of the backseat.

"Fun day," he tells me.

"It sure was," I say. "And thanks for driving. I enjoyed the ride."