Wait, did I say my nest was going to be empty?

How could I forget about the Pterodactyl who still resides there and shows no sign of leaving anytime soon?  Throughout my time as a parent I’ve generally received compliments about my children when they are not with me; I can’t necessarily say the same for my nesting partner.   Despite the 30 years I’ve been working on this project, I believe my grade is rather poor in this category.  I’m an enabler, a caretaker, a softy, and years of dependency have resulted in the creation of a domestically inept prehistoric monster.

For example, this morning I made him waffles, paid his parking ticket, and did a huge quantity of laundry so he could depart on his trip tomorrow.   If this doesn’t scream “MOM!” I don’t know what does.   Even my son pays his own parking tickets, does his own laundry and cooks for himself when he is home!   Blake’s own grandmother once told me he was the worst trained man she had ever met.  Oy vey, I’m in trouble.

A few years back I blogged about the symptoms of peri-menopause, and as I moved through this life passage, I seem to have escaped the hot flashes (picture me knocking on wood here, there is still time for these trials to occur), and most of the night sweats.   There are a few lingering issues that are vexing but not life altering:  my emotions run on the high side - I can cry at the drop of a hat, I seem to crave only things that are sweet or salty, and my skin still breaks out on occasion.  The one nagging symptom that I can’t seem to shake is the overwhelming feeling of impatience and contempt for my long-term roommate/spouse/colleague/oldest and largest child -- everything he does annoys me. 

Every. Single. Thing. 

The way he flosses his teeth and I can hear the little picking noises.  He paces around the entire house while he is on a conference call, making it impossible for the rest of us to go about our day. The endless adverbs he uses in his writing that I cross out as I edit his letters (I wholeheartedly concur with Stephen King that the road to hell is paved with adverbs).  The fact that he is always home when the UPS man comes and comments on the multitude of packages arriving.  The pile of crumpled “Week” magazines on the his bedside table next to the Q-tip he leaves in case his ear gets itchy in the middle of the night.   The two octaves his voice climbs after he’s had a few drinks.   He drags his feet when he walks in his slippers thus making an unmistakable CALUMP CALUMP noise on the wood floors that reverberates throughout the house (when this is combined with the conference call pacing I am forced to leave the nest).  Three pairs of his pants and a sweatshirt take up an entire load of laundry.  When he does empower himself to make his own breakfast, I inevitably find a shriveled, dried up English muffin in the toaster at 2 pm. The fact that he has read maybe 2 books in the last five years but has seen every episode of Real Housewives.  He returns almost everything that people buy for him, and often times things he buys for himself.  He is like goldilocks on steroids.  I could go on and on here, but it would take up a lot of space and listing my grievances is not productive (although somewhat satisfying).  I know that this is my problem, and up until now I have been able to keep these irritations at a sub-conscious level i.e. I noticed them but they didn’t get under my skin.  Lately, my skin is crawling and I can’t make it stop.  These habits have probably been around for a long time, but are magnified as we age.  No longer distracted by making school lunches and managing the schedules of my children, I am totally dedicated to the shortcomings of my spouse.  This is not a job that makes either of us happy.

When I read the Five Love Languages several years ago, I categorized myself as a #4 Acts of Service.  I recognized Blake as a combination of #2 Quality Time and #5 Physical Touch (I think it is pretty obvious that most men fall into this category).  I’m thinking that we need to add a 6^th Love Language for us empty nesters that involves extreme tolerance, meditation, and some sort of distractive stimulus when it comes to dealing with our partner’s imperfections.   Or maybe just good old fashion self-medication is the answer; tequila, edibles, or Valium would probably do the trick. 

The rate of divorce among adults 50 or older (this is called a gray divorce) is only about 10% (which is actually double what it was in the 90’s but still relatively low compared to other age groups).  This statistic suggests that people are finding a way to live with their spouse despite the ongoing aggravation.  Or they have resigned themselves to the old adage that the devil you know is better than the devil you don’t? Perhaps murder rates are higher among spouses after the kids leave the nest?

Let’s review my options:  drugs, living with the devil, or committing a felony. The future looks bright indeed….

Leaving the Nest

I’m less than 5 months away from retirement.  You must think I am a real go-getter to be able to retire at 52 years old.  The truth is I only had to manage the life cycle of two products that started just over 21 years ago (22 if you include the gestational period).  I probably could have fabricated more products, but our business plan focused on just the two with the hopes that they would provide lifelong dividends.  If we had too many, we would be outnumbered and overwhelmed.  We didn’t spend a lot on R&D luckily, but we certainly paid more than our fair share to get the products ready for market and introduce them into the world.  We foresee these launch costs extending for another 4 years, but hopefully they will generate their own profits after that, and perhaps spin off into new ventures in the next 5-10.   While I will be retired from my full time job, I anticipate being pulled in as a consultant every now and again when the products come up against competition or enter foreign markets where they lack expertise. 

If I had read the job description before I embarked on this 20+ year commitment, I probably would not have applied.  But as it were, it is difficult to put into words the skills that are required to launch this specific type of product and the gargantuan amount of time, patience, wisdom and emotion that are involved.   I would like to say that in my annual review I received glowing remarks and was consistently promoted and given generous pay raises.  While my responsibility level only increased and the potential pitfalls verged on the truly dangerous (from putting up the stair gate to talking about drugs), my salary stayed the same ($0).  The less tangible “benefits” of my job actually lessened.  Early on, my kids used to smile lovingly at me from the crib and profess their love for me every day; later, during the bleak teenage years, I went through days where I barely heard a grunt while they gobbled down breakfast and headed off to school.   There has been no third party confirmation of my performance, and I’m not sure what rating my offspring would give me.  It doesn’t really matter I suppose, what’s done is done.  Nothing is perfect, but they are both headed to college, so that is one thing.  While the job has been challenging and all consuming at times, it has also brought me the greatest love and joy I have ever known in my life.  I would do it all over again.  And as long as one of them commits to putting me in a decent assisted living facility some day, I will be pleased and consider myself worthy of 5 stars.

I oscillate between being nostalgic for the past and looking forward to having my own time/life in the future.  My kids increasingly want to spend more time with their friends and much less time with me.   Intellectually, I can reckon with this turn of events because I did not want to spend much time with my parents when I was in my late teens/early 20’s either; but really, I’m so much cooler than my parents.   The lesson, I suppose, is that you are never as cool as you think you are.  

As I conduct my own private “exit interview” to assess the last 20 years of my life spent raising my children, images of our life pass before my eyes.  First, I think of all the things I wish we had done:  taken more camping trips, rented a beach house every summer, traveled more, played cards and “bored” games as my husband calls them, performed volunteer work overseas.  But I realize it is too late for that, their childhood has been formed and I can’t go back and change it.  So I reminisce about the unique things we did do as a family and the memories they will have:  summer trips to Lake Powell, driving to Pender Island in Canada, the many places they skied throughout the west every winter, the teams they played on, the hikes and bike rides we took in the mountains, and the incredible friendships we formed with other Park City families.

I moved to Park City 15 years ago this month when Shaye was 3 and Mac was 6.  We lived for a brief stint in a ski house in Deer Valley.  Mac could ski well enough on his own but Shaye had just barely gotten up on skis.  The next year when she turned four, we tried to teach her by ourselves, which as most of you know involves hours of screaming quads while they ski between your legs.  Consequently, we put her in the Deer Valley ski school for 2 days a week for a few weeks.  I remember picking her up on her last day with her sparkly unicorn helmet, and taking the chairlift up so we could ski down to where our house was located.   At the top I would remind her to pick up speed so we could get high enough up on the ski access hill so I wouldn’t have to walk as far with our equipment.  Prior to this day, it was an exercise in mood management and battling willpower to get us both back home.  But on that day, as a new ski school graduate, she gleefully skied behind me on her own past the log homes and totem poles that dotted the “Last Chance” run at Deer Valley, and we were both beaming with pride and accomplishment.  Today, 14 years later, and the last time I will ski with Shaye for a long while, we skied down the same trail.  As I skied down with a smile on my face mixed with tears in my eyes, I paused when we approached the proximity of our old house thinking she would also appreciate this nostalgic moment.  But she didn’t.  She sped past me using all of her years of ski race training; charging by the custom homes with moose sculptures and didn’t even glance at the old stopping place where we gathered our skis and she hopped on my back to finish the trek back to our house together.  She is impatient with homework to do, friends to see, and a future that is bright.  She doesn’t need my help climbing the hills or getting down them anymore. 

I did my job well and it is time to let her fly.   My nest will be empty, but my future is also lit with possibility, and of course the occasional consulting gig. 

An Attic Full of Joy

Attics are not as popular in the West, but they are quite customary in older eastern homes.  When they were constructed, the concept of storage units and height restrictions did not exist. Attics are the bane of KonMari devotees, but they are a treasure trove for the hoard-minded Yankee (my forefathers and mothers).  

My GREAT grandmother had an attic in her Danbury home but the only thing I really remember about it was the hiding space in the floor, just big enough for one or two people to fit rather uncomfortably, that concealed the slaves as they moved along the underground railroad so long ago. 

My GRANDMOTHER’s house in CT had the benefit of not one, but two attics!  Of course her house was built in the 1800’s so attics were standard building procedure in the day.  These were not garret like spaces, her attics were spacious and incorporated triangular rooflines, so you could stand upright in some areas, but had to squat as you explored the crevices, which I did on a regular basis during my summer visits.  Whoever owns it now has doubtless converted the space into some sort of groovy teenage bedroom a la Greg Brady. 

The windows were made of heavy blown glass, so when you peered out, the real world appeared wavy and dream like.  The windowsills were littered with dead wasps, who after flying for days around the stacks of vintage possessions, met their unfortunate demise as they attempted to enter the blurry world through the panes. The attic held an exclusive scent comprised of dust, decaying paper, trapped heat, and aged clothing. The stairs were creaky and steep, lit only by a lone bulb attached to a string.   The floors were constructed of wide plank dark wood, with telltale gaps owing to their natural reaction to the eastern climate changes.  Today these would be sold as “reclaimed” for a premium price. 

This heavy world, laden with antiquity, was a place where I could spend hours, completely lost in thought about mythical characters that died long before I was conceived.  It was like my very own family history museum, and I explored it as if I were a rabid archeologist on a dig.  Every item I unearthed represented a mystery waiting to be explored.  It was the best when my grandparents accompanied me on these pioneering ventures because they would tell a story about my discovery, thus acting as my personal museum guides.

There was the practical section of attic #1, located just off the kitchen, that was used for storing seasonal items such as:  the blue glass Ball jars my grandmother used to can vegetables and jams from her garden, the old school picnic basket used to transport pies to holiday occasions, and 1950’s industrial-looking fans with metal blades, not safe for small hands. 

As I progressed to the lesser-used areas of the attic, there were hanging racks replete with clothing that could trace the lives and careers of their owners.  Military regalia, nursing attire, Shriner’s hats, graduation caps, and one of my personal favorites: my GREAT-GREAT-GRANDMOTHER’S wedding dress. Dr. Lois Ophelia Jackson Knapp was one of the first women doctors in CT and got married at the ripe old age of 40; and when I was 14 years old I could barely fit in her dress.   She lived to be 89 and my grandmother is named after her.   

In Attic #2, which was completely separate from the first and only accessible via the second floor, I stumbled upon my Grandfather’s artwork from high school.  Back in the day, even in Hartford public high school, the art education was fairly extensive.  They learned drawing, painting, pottery, basket weaving, and even a bit of graphic art.   I’m shocked by how much they covered on a public school budget.  He was a bit of a renaissance man – an artist, engineer, WWII pilot, clock maker and horologist, as well as a musician.  He was a man of many talents, but perhaps master of none.  My mother accuses me of having this trait; it can be traced to my Grampie’s DNA.

The second attic lacked the semi-organization of the first.  Things were more random and seemed to have been stored in haste.  A medieval metal bedpan stood alone atop a stack of Reader’s Digest condensed books.  I am unsure why this was considered a treasured object and can only imagine Marie Condo holding up the receptacle with gloved hands asking “Does this really bring you joy?” with a disgusted judgmental look on her wrinkle-free face.   As I methodically continued through the space I encountered my uncle’s drum set, my grandfather’s trumpet housed in its velvet lined container, rusty horse shoes, creaky wooden chairs painted farmhouse red, tattered traveling trunks with peeling textured paper lining the interior, decades of back issues of national geographic and Yankee magazines next to piles of books – Anne of Green Gables from 1907, yearbooks, and worn arithmetic books with microscopic type. I pawed through china, crystal, silverware, trophies, diaries, costume jewelry, and creepy photographs of stoic looking relatives not even my grandparents could identify. 

Sometimes my creative powers would venture to the morbid – thinking of some far off relative sick and dying in my grandmother’s antique mahogany bed with the bedpan lurking nearby.   Other times I would picture my grandmother as a young nurse waiting for my grandfather to return from the war in his handsome flight uniform.

My mother could never comprehend my fascination with the attic.  “That is just old junk,” she would say, but it provided me with great delight and story-telling inspiration.   My MOTHER also has an attic, which is only reached by a ladder and sliding panel, and includes treacherous areas where you could potentially end up falling through the ceiling into the living room if you weren’t careful.  Her attic shelters artifacts from the 70’s and 80’s, which I don’t find nearly as engrossing as the gems exhumed from my grandmother’s attic.  Examples include my 7^th grade plaster cast from a broken ankle, electric bills from the 70’s, unattractive fake flowers, Barbie Dolls, Fisher Price people and their corresponding recreational vehicles.

My grandmother lived in her house for over 40 years, which is nearly unheard of today.  Antiques were transferred to the next generation; china and silver were inherited, not purchased.  It was a time when recycling and reusing were just common sense, not a destination for cardboard and wine bottles manned by grouchy volunteers doing their community service time.  My mom spent 23 years in one house and 20 in another and is currently going through a rather painful multi-home de-cluttering process before she moves.  The big difference between my ancestors and me is that I move. A lot.  And the more you move things around, the more joyless they become.

I learned a great deal about my family, my history, and my place in the world during those excursions to the attic.   Maybe I don’t want to know the truth about my relatives via ancestory.com; I prefer to maintain the vision I forged of who they were and what characteristics I might have inherited.  Was it hellish for my family to go through all of the collectibles when my grandmother moved out?  Maybe.  Is my mom lamenting the fact that she has kept 10 years of Bed Bath and Beyond coupons?  I would hope so.   The riches in my grandmother’s attic provided hours of entertainment and imagination development during my youth.   If my Grammie had been a KonMari follower, I would have been deprived of this unique experience. And so I ask Marie Condo, is there a statute of limitations on sparking joy?   I think not.

Some Relics I salvaged from the attic

Dear Representative

Dear Representative,

I am writing to express my support for strengthening and introducing more laws that support gun control in our country and the state of Utah.  Our children go to school living in fear of a massacre and/or they have an armed guard at the entrance to their school.  People are afraid to go to nightclubs, concerts, or other crowded venues.  This is called terrorism and it is not being committed by immigrants or Muslim extremists, it is being executed EVERY DAY by angry men who were born in the United States.  If an immigrant or ISIS motivated killer inflicted this type of terrorism on our country, the current administration would be doing everything in its power to stop the terror.  Instead, the Republicans continue to cave in to lobby pressure.  Enough is enough.

These acts of terror are unacceptable in one of the wealthiest democratic countries in the world.  I understand that this is a multi-faceted problem that requires action on many fronts, but we have to start somewhere and in the places where we have the most control.   I am not against the second amendment, but every constitutional right has conditions and this one is no different.  Military style assault rifles like the AR-15 are designed to KILL PEOPLE in combat; no civilian needs access to this kind of firepower for self-defense.

A mentally ill person is just a person with a mental illness, but when they have access to a gun, they become a murderer, or a suicide victim.  Mental illness is not like other afflictions; mentally ill people don’t wear a cast on their head to identify their ailment.    Mental illness is easy to hide, and conversely difficult to diagnose.  Moreover, it is nearly impossible to convince someone to voluntarily get treatment.  Focus on what is within our control, which is the access to guns.  Guns facilitate and accelerate death.  AR-15’s do this at an exponential rate. 

Ideally I would like to see the following put into place at least at the state level and hopefully at the federal level as well:

•    Ban on semi-automatic assault rifles like the AR-15

•    Ban on bump stocks

•    Buy back of existing AR-15’s in circulation

•    Higher taxes on gun purchases and use that money to fund gun violence research

•    Expanded Background checks on ALL gun purchases (at gun stores, gun shows, everywhere a gun can be sold)

•    Minimum waiting period of 30 days between background check and gun purchase

•    Anyone with a mental health record should not have access to a gun.  Ever.

•    Raise the minimum age to buy a gun to 21

•    Mandatory training before getting a license to own a gun

•    Limit to the amount of ammo that can be purchased by any one individual and a database to track this information 

•    More federally funded research into gun violence so we can enact laws that will have an immediate impact on saving lives

•    Advertising campaigns similar to what happened with the tobacco industry - they used to be sexy, and then a coordinated campaign based on facts and research was initiated to educate people, particularly kids, about the dangers of smoking.  It took 20 years, but now everyone knows that smoking kills.  We need the same type of effort for gun control.

I will not vote for a candidate that receives any money from the NRA.  What was once an organization for sportsmen has become an unchecked and unreasonable political force that advocates for murder in our country.  Don’t let them have that power. 

I will be sending this letter to every politician in Utah, and also to all of my friends and family to share with their congressmen and senators around the country.  Things are going to change.  You can either be the agent of change or be trampled by the resistance.  The younger generation has grown up in an appalling state of fear and unnecessary death that we all allowed to happen by not standing up to the NRA.  These young adults now have a voice and it will speak loudly at the polls.  Even with a lack of federally funded research, data from around the world cited in many trusted publications makes it clear that less guns = less gun violence.  The equation is simple.

I just returned from March for our Lives.  I listened to young people from our town and from the Parkland high school describe their lives at school and the fears they have.  In my opinion, it is disgusting that we have let the issue get this far. Take action now. 

You represent citizens, not corporations.  It is your responsibility to make decisions that benefit and protect the most people in your jurisdiction.  The weapons available today are nothing like those in use when the founding fathers wrote the second amendment.  Our societal values and pressures have also changed.  The combination of these elements has created a grave danger to your constituents.  Do your job and protect them.  Every day.

Sincerely,

Kirsten Henderson

Adventures in Sundance

I passed gas.  It didn’t even have to be silent because I was standing in a small venue listening to disproportionately loud performers.  Luckily there was a pudgy bald chap near me that was probably blamed for the incident.  Perfect.  It was a risky move with this LA crowd in the music café, but hey gastric distress can’t be helped.  I’m pretty sure the Nashville rock duo drowned out the slightest bit of noise; and any lingering smells were quickly distilled by the bouquet of sweat, perfume, wet clothing, and spilled libations.

My kids, of course, call it farting.  My mother-in-law called it “tooting” but she was from England where everything sounds better with the British accent, and even corporeal activities take on an air of royalty.   Because my mom was a nurse, we used more proper, anatomically correct terms.  We didn’t poop; we made “BMs” short for bowel movements.  And of course, my mother actually ran to the bathroom to “pass gas”, she never did it in front of her family and certainly not in a public space.  My father did not share her modesty in that department.  He treated it as a game of sorts to see what kind of creative sounds he could make (the crescendo was a nice touch) and whom he could blame them on – tree frogs were a popular scapegoat.   When we inquired about this obvious lack of chemistry, my mom informed us that my dad always opened the car door for her during their courtship, which provided the perfect opportunity to break wind and maintain a sense of relationship propriety.  This guise (one of many I should add) was promptly dropped after the wedding.  And then there’s my grandmother, who was on a whole different level.  She didn’t refer to the act at all, she would freely let things go and proceed as if nothing had happened.  My brother and I would giggle and she would look at us with an air of confidence mixed with nonchalance.  You had to admire such grace in the world of bodily functions.   In the right situation (or sometimes the wrong one) I can still belly laugh at the sound of a good fart; I’ve never lost my sense of humor when it comes to potty talk.  Judge me, as you will, in fact you probably already have seeing as how I just confessed to public flatulence and letting an innocent man take the fall.  But I digress….

My husband interrupts my juvenile thoughts as he shouts in my ear over the crowd, “Hey, do you want another drink?”

“Yes please”, I yelled back. 

I notice him inspecting the women in seasonally inappropriate clothing as he makes his way to the bar.   He might want to be more discreet as he could be cited for visual harassment in the near future.   I take the time to peruse my surroundings as well.  Everyone thinks they are going to see someone famous at these film festivals, but actual sightings are rare.  The stars don’t wear their usual Hollywood glitz, they dress in some carefully appointed “mountain” ensemble which usually includes a flannel shirt, oversized pom-pom hat, and an inflated outer garment, so they fit in reasonably well.  Usually the ones dressed like it is 75 degrees when it is actually 20 degrees and snowing are just groupies.  I’ve made these staggering observations after 13 years of festival attendance.   The most interesting people look like you and me, but maybe with a NY edge to their demeanor.   The people you really want to encounter are being whisked about via private car service anyway, not wanting to soil their Prada velvet combat boots in the slushy streets of Park City.

I’ve recently returned to my pre-technical roots and avoid using my cell phone while waiting in the Sundance lines in an effort to meet new people.  I examined the queue of at least 250 people and 95% of them were looking down at their phones.  It was pathetic (not to mention bad for your spinal column)- all of us human beings here to open our minds to creative film and none of us could tear ourselves away from our handheld devices to actually start a conversation.  Consequently, I put my phone in my pocket and initiated a chat with a nice woman from NYC who finances women directed films.  Brilliant.  Enlightening.  Way better than being provoked by some fake news on Facebook.  I must admit, I gave up Facebook for the month of January along with shopping and sugar, so I didn’t have much to do on my phone with three of my primary vices temporarily barred from my life. 

In addition to the dramas, documentaries, and the dreaded foreign subtitle films, there was an anniversary celebration for women’s rights held during the festival.  This year it was downgraded to a more manageable rally, as opposed to the show-stopping march from last year.  One of my friends encouraged me to go, “Come on, Jane Fonda is going to be there, it will be like ‘Nam”.   I just couldn’t muster the energy, and my daughter now disdains feminists because the traffic from the rally ruined her powder day.  Such are the priorities of the young and untainted, who will enjoy the ability to vote, run for office, and get an abortion if necessary without having to put up a fight.

Inevitably at Sundance, I am reminded of my complete lack of impact on the world, which always sends me into a slump.  There is a profusion of talented folk out there writing creative stories, making movies about relevant political events, women lawyers who have changed laws to help minorities, women judges who have battled sexism their whole lives, refugees who have overcome unmentionable horror to find a new destiny for their children.   Christ, what have I done with my life?  No wonder my kids can’t write a decent college essay, adversity and grandeur have been largely absent from our existence.  What is my legacy going to be?  Only Sundance can make me feel incredibly inspired and hopelessly belittled all in the same sitting, but at least I’m not bloated ;-)