If You Build It, They Will Come ...
. . . at least, that's how it works if you're Kevin Costner. In my world, it's more accurately "if you take a vacation, they will ruin it." The "they" I refer to? Kids, of course!
My window of opportunity for time off appeared quickly, so at least I didn't have time to get too excited about it. First week, I had planned to take a couple days just to deflate. Otherwise, it wouldn't feel like much of a vacation, would it? A little background: My daughter has been hot and heavy with a boy across the country for months. Every week, I've been told they were socking away money, looking for apartments, and The Big Move was imminent--as in "next week," "next month." Never really came to fruition, so I guess I got immune to the threats.
So what does she do? Finds an apartment and makes plans to leave the nest immediately. As in less than a week. Forget the emotional trauma that entails--it meant we had the mind-boggling task of preparing her to leave the only home she's known here in the subtropics and land in soon-to-be-frigid Massachusetts. What Floridian in her right mind decides to introduce herself to the four seasons by plopping in the middle of winter? Sad enough she'd never even seen a proper hill before we went to Atlanta a year ago. Now, she's getting a real world education. This is a girl who whines about the cold when we dip down to 70. . . Ah, well--it's her karma now and I don't suppose they'll stay there forever. I don't even feel Florida is where we belong, even after 20-some years, so until I figure out where I DO belong, I shouldn't worry about calling the shots for anyone else. However, the main point of my rant is that this monopolized my first half of the vacation. Even doing her own laundry didn't spare me the lion's share of the work, and we ran around like the proverbial headless chickens--cleaning, sorting, locating boxes, and packing. I got to spend my Saturday driving her up to Tampa and letting her go through that gate--who knows, maybe for the last time.
Very sad business. . . until I got home and realized she'd left a mess in virtually every room of the house. It will probably take me weeks to pick away at it all, as I get the dubious honor of shipping her everything she left behind in dribs and drabs (starting with her computer, which was too heavy for carry-on and cost a cool $72 to ship!) I keep telling myself that this will be a good thing for both of us. She finally has to be an adult, get a job, pay her own bills, and (one hopes) set aside her WoW addiction for good (she claims it was merely the best way to stay connected with her man, and now they're in the same place, the game will probably become superfluous). I will also have to become an adult--or at least finally address the remaining post-divorce issues of self esteem and future relationships. Mommyhood, job, and studies have not left time for such things and I really need to hustle and face these demons, lest I turn around in 20 years and wonder why I did it alone. . .
So fine. I've survived this angst. The umbilical cord is stretchy and apparently does reach MA without undue pain or death, and hey--I still have a week of vacation!
Or not. At this point, my son takes over. He Who Is Never Ill announces he is not well. His foot is swollen and red and he's taking all the Chinese herbs his soon-to-be-doctor friend can throw at it. I have to go up there to step in. This is a guy who already lost a leg to necrotizing fasciitis and can't afford to fiddle-fart around. The foot looks bad to me, but he won't let me take him to the ER. Heck, he won't even let me wash that sink full of dishes because it's his mess in his (new) home and he's relishing the independence. Of course, as he's also just been laid off, he does not resist the offer of groceries or some Middle Eastern takeout. . . and when I finally leave (against my better judgment), he is promising that if the foot doesn't look better by morning, he will indeed go to the ER.
Natch, I get the call early. He's developed lymphangitic streaking up to his inguinal chain and his friend has taken him in. I get to spend the next week commuting an hour each way and keeping him company in the hospital. He gets his IV antibiotics, the redness recedes, the heat dissipates, the swelling relents, and they decide he can get a PIC line for outpatient antibiotics and go home.
In the midst of all this, of course, my vacation has vaporized, I'm living on maybe 3 hours of sleep each day because I'm still playing nursemaid, and I'm feeling more stressed than ever. I didn't even find time to read a book, finish my garden project, or even sleep in. Of course, my biggest plans for my vacation involved hitting my pharmacology course with a vengeance, and I ended up barely cracking a book. Here's hoping I can recover my stride and make up some ground now that I'm on the cusp of another weekend. I just need to find my own Shoeless Joe to inspire me on to complete my own Field of Dreams.
(OT: A shout-out to Jean R., who not only passed her CTR exam, but landed a job! Great inspiration!)