While in a different time zone, I send Tony a text with two questions: did you watch the debates? Did you remember your mother's birthday?
He replies: no and yes. Been organizing linens.
Ok. When I return we won't be able to talk politics, but at least he rembered his mother's birthday. But who is this man who's organizing the linens? And it isn't just the linens. It's the man who's totally revamped the pantry, all the kitchen cupboards, every closet, nook, and cranny in the basement. And the man who's sent copious boxes to goodwill, and sorted, tossed, and completely cleaned out our recently married daughters' (yes that's plural) bedrooms. I appreciate it immensely and only put my foot down after he reorganized my bathroom cupboard and was starting on my hair care drawer with no idea of what I valued or not. Undeterred, he happily moved on to his own clothing drawers.
Sigh. I call him the white tornado and wonder when or if it will ever stop. At this rate we will be pared down in material goods enough to spend the rest of our lives in an African hut. Perhaps this is his intention.
I am however, a little puzzled and when I mention the white tornado's actions to my friend the grief counselor, she has a different take. "Is this his way of grieving?" She asks. "Is it a catharsis? His way of closing the chapter on raising children?"
When thinking of our empty nest, I tear-up and feel wistful; Tony organizes. Of course he does. It's the manly (sort of) thing to do when children all grow up and symbolically move away. Why did I think as the mother that I was the only parent with a right to mourn? Wasn't he the father who took turns getting up in the night with newborns? Wasn't he the father who spent his weekends building caves and pushing children in swings? Wasn't he the father who told epic bedtime stories? Didn't he take up biking after the children were grown? Didn't he spend hours letting his daughters fix his hair and dress his face with make-up? Wasn't he the parent who waited up late until everyone was home safe?
If this is his way of handling grief, I'm sure he is unaware and sure he would have a logical retort for my friend the grief counselor and me. He might even laugh at the thought of grieving; but one thing he can't deny is that things have changed around here and he's adapting in a most unique way. It reminds me of a Neitzche quote, "The snake that cannot shed its skin will perish."
A few months ago, we all enjoyed a bird's nest in a tree by the pool. Each day we watched the mother feed her babies; we watched the birds go from teeny tiny balls of fluff to almost regular sized birds. Then one day, the nest was empty. It had served its purpose. We know that a mother bird will push out the babies when it's time to fly.
Tony will always be a father--a great one, but his days of fathering those precious little girls in our home are gone--and it's time to move em out. Time to nurture, appreciate, adjust to and celebrate their independence. Nothing could prove this more than the other day when he questioned one of the newlyweds about the wisdom of a job change.
"We know what we're doing," was her curt and unexpected reply and the perfect antidote to past-parenting nostalgia.
Tony handled it like a man: he started sorting, tossing, and vacuuming out the cupboard in the entry.
He replies: no and yes. Been organizing linens.
Ok. When I return we won't be able to talk politics, but at least he rembered his mother's birthday. But who is this man who's organizing the linens? And it isn't just the linens. It's the man who's totally revamped the pantry, all the kitchen cupboards, every closet, nook, and cranny in the basement. And the man who's sent copious boxes to goodwill, and sorted, tossed, and completely cleaned out our recently married daughters' (yes that's plural) bedrooms. I appreciate it immensely and only put my foot down after he reorganized my bathroom cupboard and was starting on my hair care drawer with no idea of what I valued or not. Undeterred, he happily moved on to his own clothing drawers.
Sigh. I call him the white tornado and wonder when or if it will ever stop. At this rate we will be pared down in material goods enough to spend the rest of our lives in an African hut. Perhaps this is his intention.
I am however, a little puzzled and when I mention the white tornado's actions to my friend the grief counselor, she has a different take. "Is this his way of grieving?" She asks. "Is it a catharsis? His way of closing the chapter on raising children?"
When thinking of our empty nest, I tear-up and feel wistful; Tony organizes. Of course he does. It's the manly (sort of) thing to do when children all grow up and symbolically move away. Why did I think as the mother that I was the only parent with a right to mourn? Wasn't he the father who took turns getting up in the night with newborns? Wasn't he the father who spent his weekends building caves and pushing children in swings? Wasn't he the father who told epic bedtime stories? Didn't he take up biking after the children were grown? Didn't he spend hours letting his daughters fix his hair and dress his face with make-up? Wasn't he the parent who waited up late until everyone was home safe?
If this is his way of handling grief, I'm sure he is unaware and sure he would have a logical retort for my friend the grief counselor and me. He might even laugh at the thought of grieving; but one thing he can't deny is that things have changed around here and he's adapting in a most unique way. It reminds me of a Neitzche quote, "The snake that cannot shed its skin will perish."
A few months ago, we all enjoyed a bird's nest in a tree by the pool. Each day we watched the mother feed her babies; we watched the birds go from teeny tiny balls of fluff to almost regular sized birds. Then one day, the nest was empty. It had served its purpose. We know that a mother bird will push out the babies when it's time to fly.
Tony will always be a father--a great one, but his days of fathering those precious little girls in our home are gone--and it's time to move em out. Time to nurture, appreciate, adjust to and celebrate their independence. Nothing could prove this more than the other day when he questioned one of the newlyweds about the wisdom of a job change.
"We know what we're doing," was her curt and unexpected reply and the perfect antidote to past-parenting nostalgia.
Tony handled it like a man: he started sorting, tossing, and vacuuming out the cupboard in the entry.