The Year of Lasts and Letting Go

Cannot believe how quickly the time is flying by these days.  Seems only yesterday I was in Bali.  Then Cuba.  Then Bali again.  Then Mexico.  When you carve up 6 months by 3 destinations (one 2 times), I guess its no shock I’m feeling disoriented and disconnected.  Add in a couple weekends in Santa Barbara in January, and its been quite a year.

Finally slowing down enough to write.  Well, not really, but it reassures me to say it.  Self-delusion, after all, is my closest friend.  But as I settle my roots back into the soil, I think possibly I was traveling so much to put off the inevitable.  As I see things now, this is going to be a year of lasts.  Jeezus.  How maudlin does that sound?

I dunno if its mid-life crisis.  I thought I had that when I moved to Australia, but apparently – good news! – we get two in our lives now that we live longer.  May be a little of that.  But I think the main source of fear at the moment is that the Ford household is undergoing a shift, beginning more or less, well, now.  And my terra firma seems more like slippery slope.

You see, Cooper, my one and only son, is heading into his last year in highschool.  And I am quietly unraveling on the sidelines.

Don’t get me wrong – I want him to go out and discover who he is.  I am proud and excited for him.  And to be going through the college experience – its so…exciting!  The possibilities!  The first taste of honest-to-God freedom and independence!   I’ve gotten so excited about this campus or that curriculum that in my head,  I am going too.  In my head, I have already started decorating our fabulous townhouse, just off campus of whatever campus we descend upon.  I’m thinking minimalist – white walls, cow-skin rugs and dark wood floors.  We’ll have poker night on Tuesdays; informal cocktails on Fridays.  Monday movie nights and hackeysack competitions, and… and.   And.

And I am struggling.

And so, I am counting lasts.  Our last Halloween.  Our last year of making his breakfasts and watching the morning news – love those crazy guys on Good Day LA.  Last year of making his lunches, though he doesn’t let me paint his lunch bags anymore, or put any notes in them, like “Good Luck on your French Test”, like I used to.  Our last summer playing volleyball in the backyard.  Our last year of watching horror movies late into the night.  Last year of bitching about Time Warner (even as I write, the internet is in and out).  Of screaming at him for not doing poop patrol or cleaning the pool or his homework or taking out the trash (hey, it can’t all be fun and games).

You get the picture.

On the upside, I won’t have to pull into the garage at night, where unbeknownst to me, Cooper is hiding; waiting.  Silently.  Until just the right time when I get out of my car, and he pounces, like Kato to Clouseau, scaring the hell out of me and sending me thisclose to cardiac arrest.   No.  I won’t miss that.

Always good to end on a high note.

 

 

 

 

 

2 comments for “The Year of Lasts and Letting Go

  1. lynne young
    June 29, 2011 at 10:35 am

    Know EXACTLY what you are talking about Lesley. Experiencing the same mixed emotions with Ryan…Such happy memories of times now unbelievably gone by, but elated anticipation mounting daily in readiness for University life that is rapidly approaching this Septmber…Where oh where has the time gone….. And my last little baby boy, where is he now? I see him standing before me with each new day, so tall, so grown up, showing me the wonderful man he already is and will continue to become…Sometimes it’s tough being a mom but he has been soooooo worth it. I imagine you must feel the same…Best wishes and lots of hugs to you, Cooper and of course Stuart….Lynne.

  2. June 29, 2011 at 11:21 pm

    Lynne – your words give me so much comfort. It is such a difficult thing, to let go without looking back. To not count lasts. We have amazing sons. A blessing. Enjoy every breath of this summer with Ryan. I plan to pull my sorry ass out from under the covers, wipe off my face, and do the same. xo

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