THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1994, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Sunday, October 23, 1994 TAG: 9410250514
SECTION: HAMPTON ROADS WOMAN PAGE: 02 EDITION: FINAL
COLUMN: YOUR TURN
SOURCE: BY MARY ELLEN McCARTER, SPECIAL TO HRW
LENGTH: Medium: 93 lines
ONE DAY I found myself standing in front of the washing machine as though possessed by an alien force. A voice from within seemed to say, You were put on Earth to wash large loads of jeans and towels, lots of towels.'' As I reached to turn it on with trembling hands, reality set in. I realized I didn't have a full load.
For years I had washed at least one load every day without fail to keep a growing family clean. I had to because there was no way I could ignore that big heap, or the aroma, that followed me around the house until I put it out of its misery. Four washers and dryers were ``laid to rest'' during that time.
Because habits are hard to break, I asked my husband, Hal, for help. Like an addict, I begged, ``Please dirty up more stuff. I can't just quit cold turkey.''
He asked in a calm voice, ``Babe, does that washer have a. . . small wash cycle?'' Of course. Why didn't I think of that, I thought to myself as I poured the soap in and closed the lid.
The washer-dryer experience wasn't the worst: the vacuum cleaner, a self-proclaimed lean, mean, sucking machine, also rebelled from too much time in the closet.
``I'm too young for retirement,'' I swore I heard it mumble through the door. ``Give me some hair or a nice clump of sock lint. . . Let me out! You could at least let the dogs in more often - I need the work!'' it screamed, as I ran down the hall, trying to escape its nagging.
I ran into the kitchen, where I was beginning to feel like a stranger. The pots and pans were out of control. Clamoring from the cupboards, they rattled, ``If you sit, you rust!'' Then I thought I heard the dishwasher door slam shut, locked in disgust.
I had 20 years to prepare for this stage, but I guess I was too busy. Totally submerged in everyday life, I not only had laundry, cleaning and cooking to fill my day, but I also had PTA meetings to attend; cheering at basketball, baseball and hockey games; swimming and power skating lessons to haul the kids to; birthday parties to plan. . . . The list was endless. I was up to my ears in motherhood, and it seemed that time stood still.
My laundry, cleaning and cooking were far from perfect those days. I remember my husband saying, ``Take it easy. They won't remember a perfectly clean house when they grow up, but what they will remember are the feelings and attitudes they got from us and all the things we did together. Remember the time we stuffed the whole first-grade class into the van, with the back bumper dragging the pavement, and we took them bowling? Or how about our summer camping trips through the Rocky Mountains? I'm sure they won't forget the 50-mile trip to that karate meet only to find out we were a week early, and how we all laughed. Most importantly, they will remember how their friends were always welcome in our home and how we always made room for one more at our table.''
Yes, he was right. The list of memories was endless. That's why it's hard to accept this clean, empty house. Making memories is a heck of a lot more fun.
It's not easy when your kids leave home. But it is rewarding to think of the things you tried hard to instill in them: self-worth, good judgment, an imagination as big as the sky and memories that no one can ever take away.
There was a time when I thought they would be with us forever. They seemed happy, and we didn't mind their comings and goings and the endless parade of friends. That made life interesting. But, one day, like a distant tribal call, they left the nest to follow their dreams - just as I did and my parents before me as will their children some day.
My children were like hot air balloons slowly rising from Time Square, with wires dangling, and I had to cut them loose. They didn't need an anchor. What they needed was enthusiastic cheering. ``Go higher, go safe,'' I said with a smile of encouragement while fighting the tears!
I clearly remember that September day, watching them pull out of the driveway, hauling a trailer full of the worldly goods to college. My heart followed them to the corner, where they turned into their newly found independence. Knowing the difficulties they would encounter on their journey, I also knew there was nothing I could do. With his warm, strong arm around me, my husband assured me again. ``We've done our job, babe. Now it's up to them to use what we gave them.'' All those memories shot through me like a bullet through my heart.
Once they were completely out of view, he said, ``Hey, you want to play tennis?'' I could see he was struggling, too.
``Sure, that would be great!'' I said without hesitation.
Now, I'm left with the echoes of little voice vibrating from the walls, and handprints beneath the layers of paint. As always, I draw strength from within, allowing me to sit here all happy inside, awaiting the next stage - grandparenthood. But this time, laundry, cleaning and cooking won't take up my time. I'll only have to concern myself with the business of making memories - and lots of them!'' MEMO: Mary Ellen McCarter is a resident of Smithfield. by CNB