My friend brought her Lendrum spinning wheel to Knit Night, last night, and generously shared it and a nice chunk of BFL roving with me. [Another friend brought hers as well, and we now have two less “spinning virgins” in our group.]
My hands have not forgotten, notwithstanding a hiatus of seventeen years. It was precisely the restorative needed after a busy day at work and entirely too much time spent rambling around inside my head, trying to out-think my feelings.
In many ways, my life is less busy and complicated now that LittleBit is driving. I let myself sleep in until 5:00am on workdays, and she sets her alarm and gets herself up now. We have prayers together, and she heads off to seminary and school and work and UIL rehearsals. I am less tired physically and at something of a loss, emotionally. I miss my kid. On good days, we have maybe 15 minutes of face time. Sometimes we are able to grab half an hour and play catch-up. I have no idea what is going on inside her head, or her heart.
She got home late last night, after UIL rehearsals that ended at 9:00 and time with friends after that. Way later than I think is reasonable for a school night. And I snapped at her, “Just what is so bad about our home that you don’t want to be here?” Which I realize after a reasonably good night’s sleep was really, “I miss you. Don’t you love me anymore?”
I think it’s safe to say that I am smack in the middle of Empty Nest Syndrome, and it feels a lot like the Weaning Blues, and I’m not sure which of us is the one being weaned.
I also realized, as I was turning off lights and semi-tidying the couch after working on Middlest’s sock while listening to “Finding Neverland” [which is not a listening-to movie; much too visual, and I really should watch it again before turning it in tomorrow night], that what all this feels like, is what I felt like days before I met the children’s father. The same restlessness, the same longing for connection, the same skin-hunger that for me is far more devastating than mere unavailable [trying to find a word that will not draw spammers and perverts; we will settle for “partnership”]. My hands are crepey, my neck and shoulders are breaking out, and I am uncharacteristically not-at-home-in-my-skin.
Not only do I miss my kid, but I also miss my water aerobics class. My membership at the Natatorium expired while I was in the middle of the last bout of croupiness, and it made no sense to renew for a year when I will only be here [and driving my car to and from work] for another three months.
I also miss Brother Sushi, but that will be remedied on Friday night when we finally get our monthly dinner. I will get to hear about his family reunion and his new grandchild. He will get to hear about the new friendships I’m building in the dinner group. For which I am now one of the moderators in our Yahoo! group, as of yesterday.
I think maybe the scariest thing about feeling the way that I did, thirty-three years ago, is that I don’t know what it means. Is this just loneliness compounded by spring fever, or is it a portent of another relationship that begins well and ends badly? Do I go out and mingle with people and try new activities and seek a fresh balance between activity and repose, sociability and contemplation? Or should I just stretch out on the couch with my knitting until these waves of emotionality and neediness have stopped rocking my boat?
Yes, I could ask the Man Upstairs, but I’m not all that sure that I’d like the answer. Braack, bock bock bock bock!
- Four years into widowhood, after one year of incredible happiness and nearly 14 years of single blessedness. Have given up perfect manicures and pretty hands in order to resume playing the soprano recorder and to see if I can figure out how to play bluegrass banjo. Singing in the shower. Still really, *really* love to knit!