Fuck Empty-Nesting!

I thought as we got older we were supposed to be better prepared for the next curve balls life fires at us? I would not say that I have handled everything over the past 20 years with grace and aplomb, and yes there were definitely moments when I was thrown (hard) by those proverbial loops, but I did not expect to find myself slamming up against as many completely mystifying, unseen walls as have come my way this year, especially over the last month.

Last week, I woke up one morning in full-blown hopelessness. Wtf? I spent the morning messaging my young chicks group (that is what I have decided to call the group that has evolved with 3 of my high school friends since in my mind, we are all still 17 yrs-old and hot as hell), and we talked about feeling useless, lonely, worried for our children and our aging parents…and finally, one of them says, “I think it is the empty nest syndrome.” Oh.

I thought I understood what it meant, that you just had to re-adjust your days, figure out how to just do for yourself and stop worrying about your kids. Lies. All lies.

It is this sense that there is nothing to get up for in the morning. It’s going to bed to read at 5:30 pm, because I don’t know what else to do with myself. Even my knitting is not keeping me up as it feels monotonous and terrifically unfulfilling at the moment. It is having to force myself to feed the dog and cats since they really won’t feed themselves. It is digging through the pile of clothes on the bench at the end of my bed to find something to wear, because I have not done any laundry ’cause no one else needs any…though I will wash underwear with no problem, thank gawd. It is not doing any grocery shopping since I go to Caribou Coffee in the morning to get my tea and a sandwich for lunch, and I just graze on snacks when I get home from school (tho, the snacks are running low now). It is wanting to be entertained by new shows and movies that fail miserably.

It is waking up and very matter-of-factly asking myself why I am here and then having that feeling follow me all day long like PigPen’s dirt cloud.

My Oldest Diva is an artist, and she does drawings for Halloween for #mabsdrawlloween every year, one a day. This one is for 10/4/21. She writes: “Night Circus✨🖤. Being a whole circus is hard work.” My inner drama queen is trying hard to create a circus for myself.

Actually, this drawing is making me feel better…I am imagining myself in this poofy skirt changing my attitude!

Now that I am working again, I find myself looking at/watching the adults around me at the school. Except for a few male teachers and the principal, all the rest of us (teachers, tutors, paras, admins, etc) are women of all ages. As I watch everyone go about their business, I wonder what they are thinking. How do they view themselves? How do they feel about what they do? That woman seems to focus outwardly with a smile on her face. The 3 women who just went by seem to be completely inside their own heads. That one is frazzled. That young one looks frustrated. That one looks shell-shocked. That older one looks bored out of her mind.

I wonder what I present to an outside eye.

Do they all have constant chatter in their heads? What does that chatter say? Is it kind, judgemental, cranky, funny, warm, brutal, loving, cruel? Are they aware of the chatter as chatter, or is the noise a low hum in the background like a power line buzz that is no longer consciously acknowledged?

I read something a few months back that made a case for that noise not being who we are. That noise is not me. That noise comes from a place that is afraid of silence. Silence must be filled, so let’s fill it with a voice that constantly reminds us how inadequate we are. How often we screw up. How often we are wrong. How often we are sub-par. How we are less than, unworthy, stupid, failing, ugly, fat, decrepit…

It struck me that our “inner voice” is so often, if not always, so fucking awful! Why? Why isn’t our first instinct to be kind? Why is it so ugly and abusive? My inner voice is a gawdamned bully! Why?

I started to really think about this idea that my inner voice is not ME. There is a part of me that finds that to be utterly stupid since the only one in my head is me, but then another part of me got quiet. It was a head-tilt moment. I stepped back and imagined that voice was a demon from another plane of consciousness who was just looking to create negative lightning bolts. Ooooo…not me. Something else, but not me. Could I stop listening? I imagined stepping around a corner so the demon thought it was alone…and there was silence.

I started to laugh. Every time I take the demon’s power away by stepping out of sight, the silence first makes me smile, and then I laugh! Is it relief? Why does that strike me as funny? Not a clue, but it has made me question what our first instinct really is? The lack of chatter in my head allows me to breathe and smile.

I have read that all life moves toward balance. We are surrounded by systems, biological and otherwise, that are apparently working towards equilibrium, yet all it takes is one glitch, one foreign body to throw it all out of whack.

I have also read that all life moves toward decay and chaos. Life expends energy as it moves until the day there is no more energy to be found and death ensues…except that decay itself gives off more energy to feed something else that for a bit maintains balance until it too begins to decay.

So does that mean balance, equilibrium is unsustainable? And even though death and decay are a given, they can sustain something else in its own balance for a brief time. So, what the hell are we striving for?

Popcorn mind…and no closer to knowing how to go forward now that those who have needed me are moving on into worlds and lives that they have created. It is as it should be.

Eye-rolling - Wikipedia

Throwback

I was reading some old posts on My Divatales blog, and thought I would share one of my favorites.

(First published Sep 27, 2007 )

Psychosomatic Hypochondria and the Small Diva

Motherhood baffles me.  To this day, near 16 years later, this is a truism.

As a young mother, I thought about my mother, watched my sisters, one cousin in particular, and a couple of my friends.  They were marvels of patience, restraint, and creativity.  They UNDERSTOOD the small creatures they bore.  They kissed every non-existent boo-boo, gently dabbed away every crocodile tear, and seemed to enjoy every interminable story.  Their kids seemed to have come with operating manuals.

At first, my progeny scared the hell out of me.  I was more likely to blink in non-comprehension and incredulity than to smile knowingly.  Each new phase in each of my small daughters’ lives was a puzzle, but since I was not a puzzle connoisseur, my instinct was to stand back a bit and watch how things would organize themselves.  I quickly changed sides in the dim-witted nature versus nurture argument…these small beings were hard-wired from conception!   Navigating the adventure of their personalities was generally educational, often confusing and frequently entertaining.  Learning how to react was (and still is) always mystifying.  I often felt like I was doing something wrong.  One sister thought I was terribly unsympathetic…a theatrical flip onto the floor for a temper-tantrum once was not met with warm cuddles as my reaction only allowed me to tell the miniature drama queen to cut the crap and get off the floor.  I fussed on my sister’s criticism, until I realized there was not much floor slapping in my house!  I instinctively felt that drama must always be presented inventively.

My fear has evolved into a healthy respect for my dangerous daughters.  I have developed a life-saving humor so that my shocked blinking can be accompanied by laughter, or at least quiet amusement, as often as possible.  It seems to work.

This house vibrates constantly with drama.  Another young mom delusion I struggled under was thinking that it was my job to maintain a calm, quiet atmosphere to nurture the best in every soul in this family, including the husband unit.  But, slowly, I began to realize that the high-frequency hum that had me undone early every evening was caused by genetics not my ineptness.  They were all divas, my husband included.  The drama crackles constantly because they were all born with it.  Management of this melodramatic bunch has proven to be well-served by humor, sideways watchfulness, and a healthy dose of common-sense skepticism.  Sometimes I can only view the newest act in the dramedy of our lives by tilting my head and squinting my eyes. 

One of our most entertaining adventures involved the Small Diva and her foray into psychosomatic hypochondria…emphasis, most surely, on the “psycho.”

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Diva Dad was working from home. The phone rings, and he answers. He hangs up and yells, “Since when does Small Diva have allergies?”

I yell from my workshop, “Never.”

“Well, she’s been sneezing for the last 20 minutes.  They want us to come get her.”

Very perplexed, I head off to the school.

I open the office door and hear this explosive series of sneezes…fake ones. I walk in and am greeted by very concerned looks from the office staff. I look at my red-faced, sweating 7 year-old, working hard to sneeze her brains out, and, deciding that laughter would be counter-productive, I simply say, “Knock it off.”

And she does.

The office ladies are now scraping their jaws off the floor as I lead my cured child out the door for a chat. Something is up.

After a long discussion about how she really needs to go home ’cause her throat now hurts (from sneezing for half an hour) and she has a fever (elevated body temp from the sneezing exercise she has been engaged in), I start leading her back to class.

Gotta nip this one in the bud.

I keep asking if something is wrong…is somebody mistreating her, teasing her? Something freaking her out in class? Is she worried about something?

She just miserably says nothing is wrong…except for this attack.  Sneeze.  Sneeze.

As we near her classroom, she throws herself at me, grabs my leg and starts wailing about how she just misses me SOOOO MUCH! As I gently peel her off and pull up the pants she’s nearly yanked down, we discuss the fact that I am always home when she gets there and that when she needs me I show up at school, right?  Her shoulders sag in defeat.  She slowly follows me down the last 20 feet to the class door, refusing to let me hold her hand.

She trudges dejectedly into the classroom as her concerned teacher comes out to talk to me.

“I have never seen an allergy attack like that!” she says.

“It was fake,” I tell her.

After she blinks a couple of times, she bursts out laughing.

Small Diva likes her because she is funny, and I can see now that she has a good sense of humor. We discuss the testing that is going on and how Small Diva has a perfection complex that rivals my own, blah, blah, blah…

As I leave, the teacher is smiling and Small Diva is working though she manages one, last, pitiful glance to make sure I know how despondent she is. 

As I am leaving the building, I am asked several times about Small Diva’s attack and watch each jaw drop as I say it was fake. The school nurse laughs and says it was the most committed performance she has ever seen. And then she pats me on the back and says, “Good job, Mom!”  (And she should know as she has been an integral part of my divas’ lives the past several years, hypochondria and all!)

When I get home and tell Diva Dad why I am without the youngest diva, guess what his jaw does. And he says it is a good thing that I went because he would have believed her. Good divas always believe the inventive drama of other good divas.

Seriously

I wrote more yesterday. A lot more. I got very serious. Tremendously, ridiculously, irritatingly, onerously serious.

***eyeroll***

I also completely stressed myself out trying to be insightful, honest, and PROFOUND!

Almost deleted it, but then I thought that 1) just because I wrote it does not mean I have to post it; and 2) I should keep it in my drafts to remind me that getting all caught up in the preciousness of my shockingly unique mind rambles is nothing but TIRESOME.

***more eyerolls***

So…I have nothing except I am out of sorts. Sometimes I am very aware that something is percolating, but nothing bubbles up into the little viewing window. I have learned to just wait as it will appear when it is damn well ready.

I can point to one irritation: this is my 4th week in my new job, and I am not working with the kids yet! I really thought they were kidding when they said it might take 3+ weeks to get everyone tested so we could then START to organize the tutoring sessions. It seems that scheduling can also take a ridiculous amount of time, because every class has a unique schedule that must be taken into consideration. And THEN, wrenches are thrown constantly which then sends all concerned back to the drawing board.

I am bored and just want to get on with the tutoring!

What else can I whinge about?

  • I need a book that will knock my socks off.
  • I need a housekeeper to clean my kitchen & bathrooms, vacuum, and do my laundry.
  • I need a new good series to watch on TV at night.
  • I need someone to cook tasty food for me.
  • …I know there’s more…

When my divas were young, I used to write about them because they were so entertaining. Now they are off living their own lives, and I feel like I might morph into one of those monstrosities who talks to people about her freaking cats. Ugh.

I think this is called empty nesting, and it sucks. It is boring only having to worry about oneself, but no, no, no, I am not going to throw myself onto the sacrificial idiot pyre that is the online dating scene. When asked if I have a husband, folks act so sorry when I answer no, until I say there is no need to be sorry or sad because I am fucking ECSTATIC to be divorced! Being in charge of myself and beholden to no one else is heaven, albeit a boring heaven.

But, I miss my family. The youngest diva is here in Minneapolis (a good hour away from where I live), but the middle diva is in Colorado Springs with her fiance, and the oldest one is in Ohio with her husband. And then there is K who lives with her husband in Louisiana, my wonderful mother and my other siblings are in California, and my former mil/great friend is in Virginia. Sure, I can visit, but now I have a job and there are 3 animals to wrangle, and with Covid, I will not be using any public transportation which means I have to drive long distances all by myself.

Oh look, I found more to whinge about.

I think about that wonderful book, Lost Connections, and I know finding my own tribe would be a good thing, but then I think about my beloved introversion, and I worry that I will just be too much myself which means getting irritated by the stupidity that abounds in so-called real life at the moment. I really do not think a new tribe is worth going to prison for.

Ok. Over myself now.

Trying to think of a non-dramatic title…

…is that dramatic?

I have been contemplating starting to write again for quite a while now. Tried to come up with a nifty title for a new blog, but everything I thought of was either already taken (as in, really not that creative) or just embarrassingly silly. Then it occurred to me that I had a perfectly good blog that has been part of my life for ~20 years, and “Taoknitter” has become a part of me (not that I can knit the Tao any better than when I chose the name. It keeps me humble.)

So…

So…

I am still alive.

I write that for my own benefit…and holy fuck if I don’t suddenly feel tears making my eyes burn!

Not sure where to start. Just like everyone I know, life over the past 1 1/2+ years has been an unexpected, brain numbing, extremely unsettling experience. And then there is the continuing disaster that is the idiot-who-shall-not-be-named that “led” this country for 4 years. I tell ya, when Covid 19 hit, I was truly undone. I was terrified, immobilized, panic-stricken, overwhelmed, shocked and, at times, hysterical and unsure why I would want to remain on this planet. I did not actively seek to exterminate myself; instead I started drinking way too much, especially when there was no job to go to anymore because of Covid. This caused me to have an accident that required me to call an ambulance…and after being told that no, I was not in danger of dying, I sent the EMTs away and crawled into my bed in embarrassment (after I called my sister K at near midnight first). I woke up the next morning, called K, and announced that THAT was the end of THAT. No more drinking. She sighed in relief, admitting that she had resolved to tell me that herself.

That was well over a year ago now, and it really was the end of that. I can now clearly see that drinking was just a way of hiding from my extreme fear and feelings of hopelessness about not only my life, but my country. Fucking existential crisis of some magnitude (and here let me point out that I KNOW I was/am not the only one). I slept a lot. I read obsessively about quantum physics and the nature of reality. When my brain was roiling from trying to understand the incomprehensible, I compulsively read hard science fiction (mostly of the apocalyptic type) that led me back to more books on quantum physics…yes, I was trying to find a way to understand and control my concepts of the world, the universe, and my reality. Did it work? Dunno. I do know that I talked K’s ear off!

I do not know what I would do without my sister K. She is my rock, my voice of reason, my champion, my confessor, my sounding board, my collaborator, my mirror, my comedy partner, my unpaid therapist, my commiserator, my bullshit monitor, my shoulder to sob & lament upon…and I can only hope I am some of that for her. She deserves a medal for diving head first down all of those rabbit-holes with me.

There were also difficult journeys to be taken with my diva daughters: one that knocked me upside the head, one that found a new path, and one of which was absolutely terrifying and that still continues but seems to be on the upswing at the moment. I learned so much. So very, very fucking much. I am not who I was which is a damn good thing, but I also seem to have found parts of myself that I lost/ gave away/ buried/ annihilated during my marriage. (Yes, dramatic. I am trying to learn to accept the innate drama that is buried in my genetic make-up.)

There has been lots and lots and lots of therapy. And continuous reading. And I will admit to self-pitying navel gazing occasionally. I really never thought much about what my life would be like when I hit 60 years-old. It was never really something I worried much about until I got here, and then I was rather stunned by how shocking and violent its arrival actually was.

So, I find myself in a place I did not expect. I am teaching again. Not in the arts at all. I shall be tutoring 4-5 grade students in math. Full-time at the intermediate school literally around the corner. Such a wonderful, sharp turn in my life. Back in undergrad, when I chose my path in the arts over the one in the sciences, I told myself I could re-visit my passions in the sciences later in life…and here I am.

And I feel more awake than I have perhaps ever been.

Alterations Price List

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The same message post that got me going in the post below has continued and evolved into a discussion of doing alterations on ID dresses, something many of us hate to do. Certainly is not one of my favorite things to do. I send my folks to an alteration shop near here. I sought her out, showed her how the dresses should work, and she took that over for me. The shop is very fancy and rather elegant…the woman there considers alterations to be an art. Quite frankly, she is so good at it that it IS an art. Here is her website.
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So on the IDDressmaking board, Terrie posted this. Had to post it here because I thought it was hysterical…and true!

“One tailor shop that I worked in around twenty years ago had a fun sign that sometimes we all could use. I’m sure that I’m paraphrasing it, but here goes…
Thanks for the morning laugh, Terrie!
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PRICE LIST

Alterations – $30 per hour

You worked on it first? – $50 per hour

You want to watch? – $60 per hour

You worked on it first AND want to watch? – $100 per hour

You want to “explain” to me how I should do it? – You can’t afford me.”

More pictures

Finally I have a couple of pics of the two school dresses I am making now.

This is the new Dudney School of Irish Dance school dress. http://www.dudneyirishdance.com/ The design and dress pattern were developed by Susan Gowin of FeisDress. Susan does the embroidery and I do the rest. We finished the first batch for the St. Patrick’s Day Parade in Alexandria, VA. Now, on with the rest! (I need to get a picture of the shawl.)


Finally got a picture of the vest I made for my mother a couple of years ago. I used a pattern from Cheryl Oberle’s Folk Vests. Mom picked out the yarn…I really do not remember what we used except that it was angora, silk, rayon and metallic, and it felt wonderful. The weight of it makes it drape beautifully. I love the colors.


And here is a pic of my youngest in her pretty poncho. She picked out the yarn…Patons, I think? It has been in the washer several times…gotta love acrylic sometimes! No pattern, just started on my circulars and kept on until it was long enough. There is a hat somewhere.

This is a jacket that I originally started for Molly. She was probably 12 then. Now that she is 14 1/2 it is no longer hip, so Grandma Dolores has claimed it. Almost done…just need to finish the collar border and weave in the wavers.
So for Molly I have started the Rockstar Cardigan from Alchemy. I will post a pic soon.

 


This is a duster I made for myself (surprised to find this is one of the few things I have ever done for myself) on the knitting machine. Emerald green wool/rayon finished with a black wool crocheted edge. It hangs so nicely. I really like the collar.