This week, my husband and I experienced a first: we moved a child into college. (Which is kinda funny, considering all our kids have had varying levels of higher education, and he’s our fourth.)

We did all the things: stopped at Walmart enroute to purchase last minute accouterments (fan, drying rack, flip-flops, trash can), stressed over directions, asked directions, got checked in, used one of the giant hampers on wheels to haul all his stuff in, and struck up random conversations with other parents. 

His room is on the first floor of one of the dozens of Hogwarty-type dorms. His dorm is co-ed, a blend of first-year students, transfer students, and a living learning community (that he’s part of).

When we got to his room, we discovered his roommate motionless on the top bunk. When my son greeted him, the guy just grunted. At first, I thought he was just rude, but then when he sat up, rumbled, disoriented, and vacant-eyed, I thought he might be sick. He assured me he wasn’t, but he still seemed confused. He left to shower then, and when he came back, he was a different person: super polite, cheerful, and helpful. And then I realized he’d just been sound asleep, poor kid!

While my husband moved the car to a new parking lot, I helped my son wash out his drawers and closet, advised him on how to arrange furniture, and watched him string twinkle lights. Then I sat on a chair in front of the window fans and tossed encouragements his way.

By the time we were done, the tiny room was actually kinda cute. (I’m pretty sure it looks the best it’s gonna look for the whole rest of the year.)

Famished, we hit up one of the dining halls.

It was $17/person for all-you-can-eat, so we hung out for a bit, people watching and encouraging our son to eat more, more, more. (His meal plan is limited, so he’s gonna have to learn to eat strategically and with gusto.)

Over the last couple days, we’ve been peppering him with last-minute wisdom nuggets:

• Keep your meds out of sight.
• Study in the library.
• Get a haircut.
• Figure out the bus system and transportation for getting home.
• Don’t get sucked into all-night video game marathons unless you’ve time budgeted for them.
• Regarding homework, front-load your semester.
• Research scholarships for next year.
• Socially speaking, capitalize on the first two weeks when everyone’s most open to meeting people. 
• Walk the campus to figure out where your classes are held.
• Work really, really hard.

We said our farewells, and then our son went one way, and my husband and I headed the other, back across the drill field where guns were being waved about and a marching band was tootling.

My husband needed a nap, so we sat down under a tree and that’s when I felt something on my ankle. When I looked down, I saw a giant caterpillar affixed to my shoe.

I have never kicked off a shoe so fast in my life, and I didn’t re-enter my body for a good five minutes.

P.S. No, I’m not sad that he’s off at school. (I went through that when he left for his summer internship.) Mostly, I’m just super excited about all the crazy wonderful opportunities he has at his fingertips. I’m pretty sure he’s gonna love it.

This same time, years previous: the meaning of life, answered, the quotidian (8.21.23), the dairy and cheese report, the coronavirus diaries: week 76, peach fruit leather, the quotidian (8.20.18), the quotidian (8.21.17), a new room, sundried tomato and basil pesto torte, on unschooling and parental comfort level, stewed greens with tomato and chili, photo shoot.

You guys, this baby. 

Names I call him:

Baby
Sugar
Sunshine
Honey Boy
Darlin’
Chunk
Beautiful
Handsome
Pumpkin
Gorgeous
Precious
Squidge
Sweetie Pie
Lovey
Angel Cakes
Shnookies
Bubs
Peaches
Sunny Boy
Bugga Boo
Mr. Hunka Munka

The last few weeks my son and daughter-in-law have been moving houses, so I’ve had Baby at least parts of four days this week (and I think I saw him on the days between, too). It’s been so much fun!

Monday, for example, I was only going to have him for several hours in the afternoon, but then I realized we were going to Foodie Group that night, so I offered to take him with us and then drop him off on our way home. My son was like, Well, sure!

And so I ended up having him for nine hours straight.

Days Baby comes, I often get up early to get work done beforehand. His arrival frees me from the tyranny of my to-do list, and then I slip into vacation mode. 

In the brief moments he’s self-occupied, I putts around the house, prepping our next meal or emptying the dish drainer. Sometimes, we run errands together, or go visit my mom, or I take him along on a walk with a friend. When he needs to pee, I dangle him over the deck railing (they’ve been potty training him since birth), and then kiss his toes and poke his tummy while snapping him into a fresh diaper. I talk to him constantly, asking questions, narrating my every move, and pointing out everything, like the cars driving by and the miracles of running water.

When he tires, I sing. Right now, Wheels on the Bus is top of the charts for his sleepy-sleepy song, but sometimes I switch it up with rumbly, made-up tunes hummed low and off-key, or hymns. 

While he sleeps (as he is now), I write. 

“My son has asked me to watch the baby three days in a row this week,” I told my friend, shaking my head. “What am I going to do about work?” 

She suggests I tell them I’m not available, but no, I don’t want to do that.

“Well, what do you want to do?” 

“Take care of the baby! FORGET CHEESE. All I want ever is be with the baby!” I was practically shouting.

“Then do that,” she said. “Say yes.” 

And so I do, over and over again, because he is the best thing ever. 

There were a few rough spells when we started watching him more regularly, so I asked them to send along a dirty shirt of my daughter-in-law’s.

They swap out shirts so he can always have a fresh dirty one, and Baby is a fan. He’ll grab the T-shirt of Love (my name for it) with both hands and then smash his head into it. The good smells soaked up, he’ll look up at me all smiles, and then a flash of confusion crosses his face.

Ha, he knows!

The Five Positions of Baby

First Position: Center
When I show up at his place, or he at mine, and I first pick him up, he often leans his temple against mine, his body slumps, and he stares ahead, vacant-eyed, like he’s docked into a charging zone. 

Second Position: Outward
He perches on my belly, or on my hip, and faces out, solemnly watches the goings-on: Danny Boy chasing after his ball. The tree branches shuddering in the breeze. The churning fan blades. The big people charging around the house. 

Third Position: Face-to-Face
He grips my fingers and rises to his feet, babbling with self-importance. I jiggle him in the air above my head and he cackles. I kiss him all over his neck and tummy, and he blinks, tense with anticipation. Sometimes his entire body grows still, except for his eyes, flickering as they rove over my face.

Fourth Position: Floor
Flat on his back, he kicks wildly, thrumming his feet on the ground, nostrils flared and mouth wide. I hang over him, talking and teasing, egging him on. I toss a cloth on his face and then yank it away, and he gasps and giggles. In the center of the rug, he’s a bottomless sinkhole into which I pour my attention. 

Fifth Position: Shoulder 
When he grows fussy, I hoist him into my arms and dangle the T-shirt of Love. He grabs it with both hands and rams his face into it, pressing against my collar bone. I sing, low and gravely, my words punctuated with steady butt-thwacks. Soon, I feel his little face stretch in a yawn, and then, slowly, his body grows heavy. As he drifts, he sometimes sings on the exhale — just once or twice — and then he’s out. 

My love for this baby is different than my love for my own children.

With them, my love was all-consuming and fierce, and burdened with responsibility. Everything about my children — their behavior, sleep patterns, diet — was mine to manage, and it all reflected back on me. 

This baby, I love without expectation, restraint, or judgment. Without fear of usurping the parents’ role. Without a need to fix anything, or control.

I don’t think I’ve ever loved anyone this freely before, which is a quite unsettling to discover, really. Fifty years and I didn’t even know love could feel like this? Where have I been!

This didn’t just happen, though. It’s not like I’ve fallen under a spell, or am victim to my emotions.

Rather, I chose it.

It’s like launching myself down a slide. Just so happens that the ride is more thrilling than I could ever have imagined, and it just keeps going and going and going. 

I could get off, I suppose, or I could dig my heels in and slow my descent — but no thanks.

Instead, I’m a-gonna throw my arms high and speed even faster, wheeee! 

This same time, years previous: midway, the quotidian (8.15.22), chocolate milk, almond apricot pound cake, breaking horses, the beginning of the end, bourbon and brown sugar peach pie, tomato bread pudding with caramelized onion and sausage, on getting lucky, knowing my questions, not your typical back-to-school post, a piece of heaven.

Last week, we went to my parents’ house for supper. As I was putting my contribution to the meal — a container of La Buena ice cream (plus cones!) — in their big chest freezer, I paused for a second to admire the frozen bounty.

My mother’s freezer is always a thing of beauty: plump bags of berries, gallon jars of granola, stacks of perfectly portioned green beans and corn and collards, loaves of bread, tins of cookies, thick wedges of cake — everything meticulously wrapped and labeled. 

How in the world do you eat it all? I asked my mother. You have so much ready-made food and it’s just the two of you! Why do you even bother to go shopping anymore?

***

People always warned me about the culinary befuddlements that arise when one’s family size shrinks back down to Just Two. After bulk batching everything, it’s hard to recalibrate, they said. 

Which is true, yes, but I’m also learning that quantity control is just one aspect of the problem — and a superficial one, at that. 

The deeper issue is an overarching question: if I don’t need to cook, why bother?

***

Cooking from scratch was one of the key pillars of how I chose to raise my children. (If you’re curious, some of the other pillars — that I’m making up right now but are not not true — included “lots o’ chores,” “books-n-boredom,” “school-free ferality,” and “screenlessness.”) 

With the children around, cooking was necessity, creativity, frugality, lifestyle choice, community, education, adventure, and joy all wrapped into one. Kitchen tasks paired well with constant interruptions so they were the backdrop to our days. For two decades, the kitchen was the engine of our home, and food made our family go round (haha). 

So what do you do when the one thing that was once so meaningful is no longer necessary? 

***

I’m in a constant state of disbelief about how little time I need to spend on food prep. I can make meal after meal, sometimes for days on end, from what feels like thin air. Just a quick root-around in the fridge and — zippy-zam-BAM — we’re feasting on tomato sandwiches, smoothies, spaghetti carbonara, a big green salad, eggs and toast, peanut butter apples, whatever. 

And still, much of what we eat is somehow still homemade and homegrown: milk, beef, pork, cheese, ice cream, butter. 

It’s rather astounding.

***

It’s not all bad, this new stage of not cooking, but there’s definitely A Tilty Feeling that comes with it. 

What I long considered The Way To Live no longer is, so where does that leave me now? I’m not sure, but I keep having itty-bitty paradigm shifts.

For example…

Example 1
It occurred to me that I no longer need to stock brown rice. Even though everyone always preferred white, I used to alternate between white and brown because: variety is good and we don’t always get to eat our favorites. But now that it’s just two of us, I have nobody to raise and nothing to prove. My husband prefers white (and I love it), so that’s what I stock. If I want brown, and I can buy a small bag whenever the hell I want, imagine that. 

Example 2
I rarely bake bread anymore because a) I get the stale stuff from the bakery, b) the kids drop off dumpster stuff from town, or c) it just materializes somehow, like the slider buns left over from a party Eucefe had a few months back upon which I’ve been building this week’s lunch sandwiches. 

Example 3
I’m even rethinking the classic family staple: granola. (I KNOW.) These days, I’ve been making pan-toasted raw oats with all the fixings for our breakfasts, or cooked oatmeal with berries and bananas. So if we don’t eat it, why make it?

***

So what’s for supper tonight? you ask. 

Oh, right. Supper. Hm, I’m not exactly sure but . . . maybe burgers?

Here, lemme break down what a burger supper looks like in a “I don’t really cook anymore” household:

• Bread: frozen Costco buns
• Meat: frozen dumpster patties 
• Cheese: take your pick! we’ve got smoked gouda, brick, Lady Zella, Colby, cheddar, all homemade
• Bacon: I unearthed a little container of frozen bacon crumbles this morning, whoop!
• Heirloom tomatoes: my younger daughter gave us a bunch from the garden where she works 
• Condiments: sweet pickles, kimchi, plus the classics.

Maybe I’ll make carrot sticks?

Oh, and there’s a little bit of La Buena leftover from that dinner at my mom and dad’s, so maybe we’ll have ice cream cones, too.

This same time, years previous: hormone replacement therapy: Carrie, help! my blender broke!, cuajada, black pepper tofu and eggplant, in the kitchen, the quotidian (8.6.18), pile it on, cheesy herb pizza, corn crepecakes, the quotidian (8.6.12), elf biscuits.