Middle-aged mom itching for her own spring break
By Debra-Lynn B. Hook
Bringing Up Mommy
Special to Tribune News Service
When I was in college in Baton Rouge at Louisiana State University, spring break meant a road trip to New Orleans, where we indulged in too much sun, too much cheap white wine and a much-needed break from accounting and journalism.
When I was the parent of young children, spring break meant family road trips from northeast Ohio where we live, to warmer climes,, to see the Washington Monument or Grandma in Florida.
These days, spring break is me taking my 21-year-old son to the airport after which I go home and consider the muck.
Muck is what constitutes early spring when you live on the tundra, more literally known as northeast Ohio, which is where I moved with my college-professor husband 22 springs ago, which is so close to Canada that we share geese.
Muck is mountains of wet leaves in the back yard that didn't get raked in the fall, and when I say mountains, I mean 100-year-old oaks molt back there.
Muck is brown gunk in the gutters that will require someone steadier (younger) than me to climb the eight-foot-tall ladder, but it’s still calling my name.
Muck is the mess inside the wheelbarrow where I gathered up all the garden decor from around the yard last fall and then forgot to put it away in the shed.
Last I checked, the wheelbarrow and its contents looked like a bad piece of abstract art, a block of dirty ice now with things poking up that I no longer recognize, nor want to touch, much less wipe off and put out again.
Who’s complaining, I meditate. I love all seasons, except it’s a challenge when you grew up in the South where the grass is lush and green year-round, where you go from azaleas in full bloom to summer in about a week.
And now here comes “spring” break to add insult to injury, my savvy millennial son so smart as to find a way out of brown and gray, that is a $64 flight to sunny California to hang with a buddy who lives in LA, after which they will drive to Utah to hike with more buddies, then on to Montana where his sister lives where they will have more outdoor fun, earning them trips to the local brewery every night.
All of which will put him back much more than a couple of tanks of gas and the cost of some craft brews.
My sister said, "Does this generation ever work?"
"They work to travel," I tell her, "and they know how to do it.”
So OK, I tell myself, if I can live through an Ohio winter, where I have actually come to value human hibernation, I can make use of a “spring” that’s not really spring, even if others are enjoying Jell-O shots in tiki bars at Daytona.
I can bask in the quiet of the house made so by the absence of Benjie and our housemate, also a college student, who is in Houston training for spending the summer in Costa Rica where he will teach English as a second language. Geez, those millennials, do they ever sit still?
I can consider that Benjie’s complicated spring-break trip, much of which includes driving in a car the size of a tennis shoe with five people, makes my throat clog with claustrophobia.
I can be responsible and mindful, even making the best of the muck, seeing leaf-raking as a free aerobics class. Being outside gives me a chance to check on the crocuses. There’s something Zen about waiting for the crocus that are slow to poke their heads out lest they get slammed by a late-winter storm. Is that snow I see on the second day of spring? Why, yes, it is. Om.
I’m also eyeing that imminently drivable Kia Seoul sitting out there in the driveway.
The azaleas are in full bloom down South. My work is flexible. I love a road trip.
On Sunday, I got to the book store in the big city, Cleveland, a 45-minute drive from the little college town where I live, to see if that will take the edge off. I go to my favorite book store, then my favorite Indie theater where I see the movie, “Gloria Bell” about a divorced woman my age who decides she will not cave to stereotypes.
Thanks, Gloria Bell. I came home and got on Travelocity. Not sure where I’m going but I’m going somewhere, right after I do aerobics with the leaves.
-Journalist Debra-Lynn B. Hook of Kent, Ohio, has been writing about family life since 1988 when she was pregnant with the first of her three children. E-mails are welcome at dlbhook@yahoo.com.
Middle-aged mom itching for her own spring break
By Debra-Lynn B. Hook
Bringing Up Mommy
Special to Tribune News Service
When I was in college at Louisiana State University, spring break meant a road trip to New Orleans, where we indulged in too much sun, too much cheap white wine and a much-needed break from accounting and journalism.
When I was the parent of young children and living in northeast Ohio, spring break meant family trips to warmer climes with the kids, to see the Washington Monument or Grandma in Florida.
These days, spring break is me taking my 21-year-old son to the airport after which I go home and consider the muck. Muck is what constitutes early spring when you live on the tundra, more literally known as northeast Ohio, which is where I moved with my college-professor husband 22 springs ago, which is so close to Canada that we share geese.
Muck is mountains of wet leaves in the back yard that didn't get raked in the fall, and when I say mountains, I mean 100-year-old oaks molt back there. Muck is gunk in the gutters that will require someone steadier (younger) than me to climb the eight-foot-tall ladder, but it’s still calling my name. Muck is the mess inside the wheelbarrow where I gathered up all the garden decor from around the yard last fall and then forgot to put it away in the shed.
Last I checked, the wheelbarrow and its contents looked like a bad piece of abstract art, a block of brown ice now with things poking up that I no longer recognize, nor want to touch, much less wipe off and put out again.
Who’s complaining, I meditate. I love all seasons, except it’s a challenge when you grew up in the South where the grass is lush and green year-round, where you go from azaleas in full bloom to summer in about a week.
And now here comes “spring” break to add insult to injury, my savvy millennial son so smart as to find a way out of brown and gray, that is a $64 flight to sunny California to hang with a buddy who lives in LA, after which they will drive to Utah to hike with more buddies, then on to Montana where his sister lives where they will have more outdoor fun, earning them trips to the local brewery every night.
All of which will cost not much more than a couple of tanks of gas and some craft brews.
My sister said, "Does this generation ever work?"
"They work to travel," I tell her, "and they know how to do it.”
So OK, I tell myself, if I can live through an Ohio winter, where I have actually come to value human hibernation, I can make use of a “spring” that’s not really spring, even if others are enjoying Jell-O shots in tiki bars at Daytona.
I can bask in the quiet of the house made so by the absence of Benjie and our housemate, also a college student, who is in Houston training for spending the summer in Costa Rica where he will teach English as a second language. Geez, those millennials, do they ever sit still?
I can consider that Benjie’s complicated spring-break trip, much of which includes driving in a car the size of a tennis shoe with five people, makes my throat clog with claustrophobia.
I can even make the best of the muck, seeing leaf-raking as a free aerobics class. Being outside gives me a chance to check on the crocuses. There’s something Zen about waiting for the crocus that are afraid to poke their heads out lest they get slammed by a late-winter storm. Is that snow I see on the second day of spring? Why, yes, it is. Om.
I’m also eyeing that imminently drivable Kia Seoul sitting out there in the driveway.
The azaleas are in full bloom down South. My work is flexible. I love a road trip.
This past weekend, I went into Cleveland, a 45-minute drive from the little college town where we live, to see if that would take the edge off. I went to my favorite book store, then my favorite Indie theater where I saw the movie, “Gloria Bell” about a woman my age who decides she will dance, no matter who gets in her way, even if she dances alone.
Thanks, Gloria Bell. I came home and got on Google maps. Not sure where I’m going but I’m going somewhere, right after I do aerobics with the leaves.
-Journalist Debra-Lynn B. Hook of Kent, Ohio, has been writing about family life since 1988 when she was pregnant with the first of her three children. E-mails are welcome at dlbhook@yahoo.com.
