All Quiet On The Southern Front

It’s really quiet in Poquoson, Virginia. 

So quiet, in fact, that I can actually hear our beloved Staffordshire bull terrier Shea Tallulah gently snoring during puppy naptime all the way down the hall, with the television on, no less.  That’s pretty darn quiet. 

The thing about so much quiet is that when I am alone with my thoughts for prolonged periods of time, it can get pretty darn crowded in my head.  This is why I end up doing things like organizing the pantry in my beau’s kitchen and alphabetizing all the canned goods.  Not because he expects anything like that - he often comes in the door and proceeds with caution, wondering what I’ve gone and organized this time - but because I just seem to need order in my life. 

Since his place is orderly and tidy to begin with, it has become a bit of a challenge to find things that require my organizing expertise. 

The pantry was one of the last frontiers of disarray.  No longer, though. I was a tad bit miffed when my beau asked if the canned goods had also been sorted by their "use by" date, as well as alphabetically. 

Canned goods have a use by date? 

I have time to ponder such philosophical questions while in Poquoson.  In between catching up on work e-mails and making runs to the Williamsburg outlet malls, I’ve got some time to spare; a luxury, to be sure.   

I have always been in a hurry.  Even before cancer, I have always been pushed, rushed, bullied and stretched beyond the confines of time.  As a child, I had to run an entire household for an often mentally unstable, and frankly lazy (when rational), mother. 

I had to rush my way through college because I was paying for it, and another semester wasn’t in the budget. I had to support myself by working at three jobs.  Because of this, I so envy kids these days - five whole years to get a degree?  Seriously?  I never had that option. There was no finding myself or exploring options.  As if.  I had to take classes and get skills that would land me a job, period. 

I still wonder what my life would have been like, had I even one choice or chance to take an elective that didn’t go directly to fulfilling my major.  Home economics?  Could have been Martha Stewart before she crafted an empire out of muffin recipes and decoupage.  Anthropology?  Could be digging on the Giza plane where all the mummies are still waiting to be found.  Law?  Could be giving local judges a writ of time. 

Instead, I allowed my fear and insecurities - along with a frankly dysfunctional upbringing - to rule my choices. I rushed my way, with a 3.8 grade point average no less, through what should have been the best time in my life.  

But it wasn’t.  What is coming will be the best time in my life. 

My daughter and her family have found a house.  They are frantically going through the loan process and will soon, first week of January, be on their own.  I’ll have my house back and I’ll be sad to see them go; mostly Baby Claudia, who is a 28-pound miniature human wrecking ball, charmingly clad in baby designer duds. 

What that baby can do to a spotless room is impressive, trust me. In spite of this, I am going to miss them. 

I am going to miss how Baby CJ gave half of her breakfast to two intrepid dogs, and I’m going to miss how she would watch "Jeopardy" with me, clapping her tiny hands each time she heard the audience clap on television. 

I’m going to miss watching my daughter mess up my entire kitchen with her impressive baking projects, and how my dog, Sophie, likes to lay right on top of my son-in-law like he’s a giant pillow.  One can hear Sophie snore at these times too.  Complete contentment, which I hope she experiences when she gets to bunk with me again - right after the cats move, right along with my daughter and her family. 

Yup, she’s taking the cats - two of three of those stuck-up, feline freeloaders, at least.  After all, they are her cats, and her responsibility.   

I am reflecting, here in the whispering backwoods of Poquoson, Virginia, of how proud I am of my daughter.  How responsible she is, how she took on the daunting task of finding her family a home, doing all the (endless) paperwork, taking countless calls with bank loan officers, her lovely real estate agent, Debbie and loan broker. All the while keeping me in the loop, and always with Baby Claudia balanced perfectly on one hip.  Baby Claudia riding shotgun in the midst of home-buying insanity and my daughter doing the math, getting the paperwork completed, charming people I would sooner perform the Vulcan Death Grip on.  My kid is, simply put, amazing. 

I know better than to take any credit for this.  My daughter crashed her life back around age 20 and then single-handedly rebuilt her entire world from the ashes.  This makes her completely and entirely responsible for the amazing person and incredible mother she has become, and the life she’s built.  And I would not have it any other way.   

So, I get my life back, in just a few short weeks when the kids move in to their own home. But ,in reality, I had it all the time.  Messier, more cluttered and completely without the streamline organization and structure I crave, but I still had my life the whole time.  I had my life the second I beat cancer.  I had it all the time.