My two sons and my “was-band” (husband that was) and our dog all came for a visit for this Thanksgiving holiday. What a change from having an empty apartment to having every room filled with people and an animal. I have got to admit there were a few times in the last year for a few brief little moments, when a tiny bit of loneliness reared it’s ugly head and entered my usually lovely, comfortable, modern, oasis. I bought some plants in summer, tomatoes, parsley, basil, mint, and a pepper plant and one night when I got home from a rather long day at my temp position at a roofing company. (Yes, one of the most boring jobs ever), I walked in the door to my rather silent apartment and called out to the plants, “Hello plants! Mom’s home.”
There are some really great things about living alone. I am a very neat, clean, organized person. I have a place for everything and everything is in its place. Therefore, for instance, when I go to look for a pair of scissors, lo and behold there they are, in the top drawer exactly where I put them the last time I used the scissors. When my children come for a visit and I look for my scissors they could be anywhere. . (As every mother knows) I could find my scissors on the kitchen counter or in the bathroom on top of the toilet. This actually drives me crazy. I like a clean kitchen and as a woman, living alone, my counters are clean. Every night I clean the stove and the two kitchens’ sinks. My boys cook for themselves during the day while visiting and they have a habit of spraying grease and food particles in every direction. I like to watch the news at night after which I like to watch a movie or a show on Netflix. My sons spend a good portion of the day playing games on my big screen TV and or watching soccer or Formula One Racing. I say farewell to my favorite programs. Should I mention food? I spent about $350 filling up the fridge and the cupboards with snacks, goodies, drinks and their favorite lunches and dinners. Now this should last more than a day or two, but it doesn’t. The kitchen is an ongoing food dispensary that starts at breakfast and runs through lunch, dinner and into the night.
Still it is such a nice feeling to hear my boys (now men) laughing in the front room as they battle each other with controllers in hand, knocking off one Transformer at a time. Listening to them they could be back in our den when they were just kids playing together on the weekend. My “was-band” is in the kitchen pouring himself a glass of wine and munching on peanuts and bread and cheese. (He is a Frenchman and a baguette and cheese are staples in every Frenchman’s home)
My youngest son is 22 years old and he is a senior in college. He lives in a college town about an hour away with two roommates and a cat. He was the last to arrive and he arrived exactly at dinnertime, as usual. My son smiled, said hello to his brother and father and me as he rolled up his long sleeve shirt, which exposed a large tattoo of a horse in navy blue, which is the logo for Ferrari. You see my son loves Formula One racing and he is a huge fan of Ferrari cars and the Ferrari racing team. I stood in shock unable to speak. My boy … my perfect baby boy had placed a tattoo on his left forearm that reaches from his wrist to his elbow. I was horrified. There goes his possible partnership at the law firm after he gets his law degree. There goes his Senate Seat and so much for running for President. All down the drain. The perfect little body that I gave birth to was now forever stamped with a Ferrari logo. To force myself to talk calmly instead of screaming I made myself a double martini after which I drank a large glass or two or three of wine. “Why,” I managed to squeak out in a voice that sounded odd to me, “Why, would you do that to yourself?” My son answered in a resolute manner. “Mom, I’m 22 years old and I work fulltime while going to college. So if I want to get a Ferrier tattoo. I will get a tattoo. I paid for it with my own money.” What can you say in response to that statement? I yelled, “How will you ever become a lawyer? How will you become a senator, and how will you become President of the United States???” “Mom”, my son answered, “I’m an adult.”
Yes, he is. Both of my wonderful sons are now adults. Let’s face it. One of the hardest things in life to face is that we have to, let go. We have to let go all through life. Every bit of letting go is hard. When we are young we let go of a few little things here and there. As we age letting go is a constant issue that we must face. I had to let go of some dreams. There was a man who I loved … it didn’t work out so I had to…. let go. I wanted to work in television… got married instead and then moved to Europe with my husband …. so I, let go of that dream. Some old friendships…. time and distance changed friendships so I …. let go. Death, yep, death keeps happening… grandparents, friends, boyfriend, then mother, little sister, father…. gone, gone and gone, let go. Marriage, children, home are all gone, so, I have had to, let go. My sons are adults now. I no longer have the authority to tell them what they can or cannot do, with their lives. I will however, always give them my opinion. I AM ALWAYS GOING TO HAVE AN OPINION. I am, after all, their mother.
Letting go is a must. We have to let go and shake off the old. We have to keep our options open. Meet new people. Doesn’t work out? Move on, let go. If you get the hang of this, it gets easier and easier and it is a necessity as we age so we don’t stand still and look back. We must keep our eyes ahead and on the present and the future. Keep learning, don’t stop, don’t get stuck in the past, let go and most of all keep moving, keep adding new people into your life and smile and wave goodbye if it doesn’t work out. Add new dreams and make new plans… keep the best of the past and add new things into your future. So, in one night, I had to learn to let go of my baby boy and say, “Hello” to my adult son, with the tattoo on his left arm.
After my third glass of wine, I started to consider getting a small tattoo of a daisy on my right hip for my next birthday. Why? I’m an adult and I like daisies.
Until Next Week…