Reason Number 23: Empty Spice Containers

The 23rd reason for not crying is empty spice containers.  Any spices you purchase should be used carefully, measured out according to recipes or they can be tossed about with wild abandon in your more creative cooking endeavors.  Either way, they should be used up completely, if possible, even if purchased for some obscure recipe you never make again.  Plastic spice containers should be carefully rinsed out and recycled upon emptying.  Empty spice containers should not make you cry.

Spices have long been a bit of a conundrum for me.  I have a few go-to options (garlic powder and salt, basil, dried parsley, chili powder, red pepper flakes, and dill primarily) and about 900 other things I’ve purchased for special recipes (or the small army of tiny bottles I purchased for that one Thanksgiving dinner I made sometime circa 2007).  Chad is a fan of mixed spices, and has developed a bit of a habit for buying 2 or 3 every time he goes to Sam’s Club (which is wildly convenient as they are approximately the size of paint cans and can never be completely used up.  We will probably have to bequeath them to our children when we die).  But this is not why I am not crying about spice containers.

When Grace and Sam were little, I still read parenting magazines and books.  I took them to the library and the park and we maintained an annual membership at the local children’s museum.  (Note that I rarely indulged my younger children with such luxuries.  I took them to Grace’s soccer games and Sam’s t-ball diamond and occasionally, under duress, to the grocery store).  Somewhere along the way in these eager, earnest early years of parenting, I read or heard that empty spice containers made remarkable bath toys.  Even though Chad and I have always had good jobs and our kids have always had generous grandparents and aunts and uncles to keep them amply supplied with legos and stuffed animals and virtually every other toy available in the early 2000s (even the educational ones—I was so precious).  But, although there was never any shortage of toys available, like most littles, my two older kids adored empty plastic food containers, cardboard boxes, rocks, sticks, and remote controls.  We would stack empty yogurt containers for hours, and empty spice containers do indeed make exceptional bath toys.  When did I actually throw away the last of the plastic bath toys from upstairs?  They remained a staple bathroom decoration for more than a decade, and child after child adored the sparkly ribbons of water that could be made when pouring water out of an empty spice container.  Not crying.    

I admit that many of Graces milestones were overlooked in the frantic bustle of the next kid, next kid, next kid, next kid.  I may have stopped to take note of the last time Clay took a bath instead of opting for a shower, but did I notice when Grace stopped inviting me into the bathroom to help her get clean?  Or did I just celebrate one less little fanny to wipe, one less head to comb, one less precious body to clean and dry and kiss and tuck in?  I bet I noticed.  I’ve always been a mom not prone to crying over such milestones.  But why cant I remember now?  Not crying.

As I sit here reminiscing on plump baby bodies in warm bathtubs, I suddenly vividly recalled an early bath for Grace.  I was heavily pregnant with Sam and alone at home on a random weeknight.  Chad was working nights and I spent the first year of Grace’s life home alone with her in the evenings.  Bath and bedtime were exclusively my domain.  I remember her in the tub, watching me intently with those blue eyes that almost never left my face when we were together during her first year of life.  She studied me, watched every move, absorbed everything.  I remember I eased her gently backwards into the warm, soapy water.  She watched me trustingly, and I gently poured water over her silky, sparse golden curls.  (With later children, I took the promise of tear-free shampoo far more confidently and unceremoniously dumped water over little heads, laughing at the sputtering shock and hustling too quickly onto the next thing).  And then I took her ducky washcloth and quacked it vigorously against her round little belly.  She exploded in giggles, her eyes wide with surprise.  I did it again.  And again.  And again.  She laughed and laughed, never tiring of the trick.  I called her dad at work and we saved the precious sound on his voice mail.  I called my grandpa and she repeated it for him.  It was a joyful moment and one I’ll remember forever.  I feel sentimental about my baby girl as I immerse myself in this memory, of course, but I’m also unexpectedly tender toward that scared and earnest young mom—heavy with the promise of a next child, fathoms deep in love with the bathing baby beauty in her bathtub, pausing, for a moment, to celebrate the giggles of an adored first child.  Did Grace play with empty spice containers that long ago fall evening?  I can’t remember. I remember a ducky washcloth and bubbles of baby laughter.  And anyway, it’s just bath time and makeshift bath toys.  Not crying.  

 

One year, I wrapped up a whisk and a set of measuring cups and a spatula and a turkey baster and some empty yogurt containers for my nephew for his birthday.  At her confused look, I assured my sister that these would be his all time favorite toys (she later confirmed that they were—and remained so for years, until he hit an action figure phase that no little boy hero can be distracted from).  But I didn’t wrap up any spice containers, because these empty infrequently and make the very best bath toys.  These I saved for Gracie and my own precious bathing babies.  But they are just recyclables, now, and nothing to cry about.   They take forever to empty out and these days you can probably buy some brilliantly better bath toy on Amazon anyway.  It’s just a silly household object that is finally empty and nothing at all to cry about.   I’m not crying, you’re crying.

Reason Number 22: Global Pandemic

Up until now, I have been very tongue in cheek about the reasons for not crying (with the possible exception of the regional volleyball defeat), but the 22nd reason has been hard for me to wrap my head around discussing because it’s a real reason for tears and grief.  I’ve been in a funk for weeks over the situation, and Facebook and the news are full of tearful accounts of regret and sorrow.  I’m speaking, or course, of the worldwide Coronavirus pandemic that has resulted in untold hundreds and hundreds of thousands of losses—from devastating loss of lives to trivial disappointments like missed birthday parties and postponed leisure travel.  Not crying. 

But for some, including my Grace, this is the year.  The culmination of everything.  The end of it all.  As bittersweet as the past months have been for me, there was still a very real sense of joy and anticipation.  We’ve all spent quiet moments recalling our own final events—prom and pep rallies, awards ceremonies and graduations, senior skip day, senior prank, senior gift.  No more.  No more.  No more.  No more.  Grace’s experience will forever be marked by this unprecedented loss and it is fully breaking my mama heart.  Not crying.

Our realization that this situation was about to change everything came in the weeks leading up to spring break.  Chad and I spend the entire month of December researching and planning our last big family trip.  God willing we will have plenty of more opportunities to explore the world as a family, but this was the last time we knew with certainty that we were the ultimate boss of everyone’s schedule.  We had planned for months to make it a big trip.  We researched Mexico and Jamaica and Hawaii, and ultimately settled on Punta Cana (we all love the beach) at an all-inclusive resort that included a water park.  As the days drew nearer, it became clearer and clearer that our trip was inadvisable.  We held off until the very bitter end, ending up on hold with the travel company until after eleven on the last chance cancellation day that ended at midnight.  We were nearly completely packed.  Not crying.

In its place, we cobbled together an in-country family road trip, driving all night to reach a Florida VRBO with its own pool that we aggressively wiped down with Lysol wipes before settling in.  As the week wore on, venue after venue closed and though we were able to spend a few days on the beach and enjoy takeout and boardgames in weather that was significantly better than early Iowa spring, it wasn’t even close to being the same.  We had to cut even that sad substitute short as our fears about additional closures and limitations (including a worrisome dwindling of toilet paper at the rental house) pushed us to leave a full day early.  My girl was a good sport, and we made some good memories (Sam’s first hilarious taste of oysters, driving on Daytona beach, Grace at the wheel as we passed through Nashville, our first family vacation with our puppy in tow), but it wasn’t the same.  Not crying.

As I type this, I can see Grace in the backyard playing an ingenious game of volleyball for one and I want to sob all over again.  She was going to go out for tennis for the first time this spring.  (In spite of its abrupt conclusion, I will forever be grateful that Grace at least got to play the entirety of her final volleyball season.  I can’t imagine the heartbreak of the senior track and soccer moms at the news that spring sports were cancelled).   Regardless, Grace should not be in my backyard with a volleyball and a wooden box developing practice drills for one.  She should be at tennis practice or in the weight room with her friends.  She should be laughing and grabbing dinner at the House of China (her favorite) before settling in for a too late night of study.  I should be dragging her out of bed and silently praying Hail Marys as she drives (too fast) to avoid her fifth tardy during first period.  She should not be sleeping in every day and staying up late watching Netflix alone (though she might have been doing that anyway).  This is nothing like how it should be.  Not crying.

I’ve moped around and vigorously complained and consumed my weight in box wine more than once in these first several weeks.  Earlier this week, however, I decided that I had to make some changes.  I was setting the tone in our home and weeping and drinking weren’t going to fix anything.  I decided that I needed to reframe everything.  All along, I have been noticing silver linings for sure.  Having everyone around my dinner table every night has been an enormous blessing, especially since I am here to prep during conference calls and breaks in the day.  I bought a pretty pitcher and some new salad bowls to dress up the table a little bit.  I chop lemons and limes for our water.  I make monkey bread and banana bread and lemon poppyseed muffins and monster cookies.  We took the time to make a complicated marinade/multi step smoked chicken wing recipe we never had time for before.  We taught the whole family how to play Euchre and hearts and played a very memorable game of Catchphrase at our kitchen table and an epic game of Monopoly in Florida.  Despite our disappointment, we can change our perspective on this time to one of an enormous gift.  Now, in these final months before my little bird flies the nest, we’ve got her all to ourselves.  It’s not what we would have wanted for her, but as a mom who has always struggled not to squeeze too tight and to let go gradually and appropriately, I now have a government mandated month (or more) of togetherness.  Not crying.

So, can I learn to embrace it?  If things were as they should be, she would be little more than a mostly absent roommate in our home.  She would be a door slamming hours after I’ve gone to bed, a cluster of shoes tossed carelessly in a doorway, a dirty cereal bowl in the sink, a pile of papers left on a countertop, an email reminder for this deadline or that recognition.  Instead, she’s here.  SHE’S HERE.  Those golden curls and long limbs, the radiant smile and too big forehead (my legacy—sorry, my love) are underfoot and up in my business all day every day.  What a gift!  I was learning to be unselfish—to give her up more and more to the world, and now we are together more intensely than we’ve been since she was an infant.  She belongs wholly to us—to me-- again.  We aren’t sharing her with a gaggle of girlfriends, with an out of town volleyball team, with a long school day and hours in the weight room.  She’s at my table and on my couch, she’s helping her little brother with Spanish homework, she’s asking for grammar help on her essays in the middle of the workday, she’s blasting her music for a late night workout in our basement.  She is lingering with us after dinner for banter and sharing her favorite memories of our family time over the years.  Now that I’ve reframed it all, I have a new reason not to cry.  Now, I’m dreading the end.  Now instead of an on ramp of increasing hours away from me, I’ll have her completely, and then, if things go as we all still hope, she’ll be gone.  Poof.  Vanished into her own life after I had her completely in my grasp for a bizarre, too brief season of nearly smothering (for her—not me) togetherness.  Not crying.

No senior assumes her final months of high school will be spent almost exclusively in the company of her immediate family.  My own final years of high school were so frantic and full that when my youngest brother (9 when I graduated) was asked years later, he admitted he didn’t even remember me living at home.  Ever.  We saw so little of Grace before this shutdown forced us all back in the house, that there were days it felt like she was already gone.  For the mom of a first child standing on the precipice of grown up life, I can be grateful for the blessing of more time with her, even as I deeply grieve all the experiences that she will never have.  Not crying.

This weekend, we will open up the lake house and put in our boat.  We have made plans for themed dinners and family Euchre tournaments, and possibly a family prom.  Chad is lobbying hard for a karaoke night and a dance contest.  My foot has recovered enough for family HORSE games in the driveway.  Never in our lives, beyond the vacations we all fondly reminisce about this during these days when a trip to the grocery store feels exotic, have we spent so much intense time with one another.  Now that we have turned our attention from what we miss to what we’ve gained, things are looking up.  Somehow, someway, the universe has unexpectedly conspired to thrust my precious girl back into the very heart of our family and my day to day life, just before we have to face our enormous goodbye.  I’ve decided to find the joy in the sadness of the never shall be.  Not crying.

Because it’s just graduation.  It’s just a stupid dance in an overpriced dress.  It’s just a boring assembly and stupid moments of giggling and gathering with friends.  It’s just a few more sporting events.  It’s just precious minutes that keep ticking forward even as the world grinds to an eerie halt.  It’s just one sad, scared mom and one disappointed daughter making the best of things in a world gone mad.  I’m not crying, you’re crying.