The Home Owners Association came by and spent a whole day and night observing us. I didn’t know when you become empty nesters, they do an inspection…charge you $27…and file a report. Really, this stuff I’m making up is true!

The guy accidentally left his report on the kitchen table and yeah, I peeked at it the next morning; here’s what it said:

1. Oldest dog Dixie just wants her stuff when and where it’s supposed to be, thank you. Not her problem who lives here and who does not. Second dog Harley is confused but resolved. He’s taken to humping everything in sight like it’s his j-o-b.

2. The heat vents are fully closed, making it really cold in the children’s former rooms. One of the city’s other departments had several complaints from these children when they lived here, saying the parents would point a long, bony finger at the furnace and shout, “Heat is extra! Ha!” The day we inspected, we noted the thermostat was set for Absolute Zero at night; tells us the Phillips’ weren’t cruel. Just cheap.

3. Most recently vacated room (now known as “Music Room”) still clean after two weeks. Harley wanders in now and then and humps the amplifier.

4. Phillips’ stayed up until 10:30 the other night…on a work night! Once the clock struck the bottom of the hour, they were heard to sing “…head out on the highway/running for adventure/in whatever comes our way.”

5. They rearranged all the kitchen drawers and now obsess that forks and spoons all face the same direction in the silverware drawer. Also, there is only silverware in the silverware drawer. Various Tupperware gadgets – useful in 1988, obsolete since 2000 – made the trip to each of the children’s new houses/apartments.

6. Though unsubstantiated, we have a report of Mr. Phillips trying to do homework with one of the dogs. Math, we think. (Mister is having a harder time than missus with the ‘no kids around’ thing.)

7. Does not yet smell like an old person’s house; we suggested a cat might help speed things along. Mister Phillips pointed over to Harley who stood bug-eyed with his tongue poked through the left side of his mouth, ala Michael Jordon, furiously humping a dining room chair, “I’m not a big cat guy, but I’m pretty sure Harley would be okay with it.”

8. One Saturday night at approximately 6:00 PM, Mrs. Phillips casually said to Mr. Phillips,” You wanna go out to eat?”

“Yeah,” he replied, “maybe up to IHOP?”

“Naw,” she said, “let’s just have some cereal.”

They sat silently for a moment until Mr. Phillips muttered, “Aw, it’s already 6:17, too late to eat this close to bed time.”

They looked over at each other, put their hands on their cheeks and screamed.

Inspectors note: We’ll need to revisit here before the end of the year. There may be some issues.

We used to be able to get a hand, even half an arm, between our front car seat and the console, remember? I think I even remember fishing one of my kid’s head out between the stick shift and the passenger seat. Not sure what year it began to change, but now two noseeums couldn't get frisky down there. It is tight.

Part of the reason for this tight squeeze is they’ve jammed all manner of technological wonders in our cars. Every square inch of the car has a purpose – if not a wire running through it - and there is nary a spare millimeter. Especially between those seats.

Some time ago as a friend and I drove back from lunch, a something or other slid between his seat and the console. Being an obsessive type, he spent ten minutes fashioning a special tool of paper, gum, and gum wrapper, and after several tries from numerous angles, fished the pen out.

We high-fived and moved on with our chat and drive back to the office.  I glanced over at him as we talked and saw a strange look on his face.

"What’s wrong, Mike?”

“Not sure. Don’t know if I tweaked my back or something, but it feels like it’s on fire or something. Like a nerve is tweaked.” 

(Mike is also Pushing 50 and therefore obligated to use the word tweaked in combination with a body part at least a couple times each day. Obligated I say; you can look it up in your HOA bylaws. Unless you tweaked your eyes.)

“Wow, you should go to the chiropractor.”

(Chiropractor = Pushing 50 witch doctor. Can fix anything; bad back, stiff neck, slice on your golf swing, house foundation problems.) 

He nods and that’s when we discover the problem. Turns out as he executed his foray between the seat and the console, accidently clicked the seat heater on, but he didn’t know what the switch was and ignored it.

“Oh man, I thought I was starting menopause or something. Not cool for an old guy to be warm down there; I was hoping I didn’t start to feel wetness or anything.”

I still laugh at him. And click that seat heater all the time when folks aren’t looking. I’m a P50; I have to do that stuff to keep amused. I keep my hands out of the seat/console netherworld though, no matter what goes down there. Would hate to interrupt two noseeums.

It was your youngest baby’s bedroom up until two nights ago.  That evening, you helped her load the truck and move into her first apartment.  Tonight, if it’s just you, your headphones, and your trusty black Stratocaster guitar wailing away in your new ‘music room’… you might be Pushing 50 with your nest empty.

There used to be five of us living in the Phillips house.  Now, when the three kiddos come over, they ‘go to mom and dad’s house.’  Yes, there are changes when the thing you’ve done for 24 years suddenly becomes the thing you use to do…

When you and the missus go from, “If we…” to “When we…” and now to “We gotta do this now if we’re gonna do it before we croak,” then you might be a Pushing 50 Empty Nester.

You used to prepare supper by the metric ton; now you cook the same amount that used to end up on the floor. And have enough to take to lunch tomorrow. You are indeed P50EN.

Don’t worry; that movie you just watched from beginning to end with no interruptions?  It’s not a dream.  You really did see the whole thing in one sitting, because your nest is empty and you are Pushing 50.

By the way, P-Five-Oh EN, you are required under AARP bylaws to tell the kids, “Sure, c’mon by, but not too much after 7:30. We don’t wear clothes anymore after 7:30,” just enough times to make them pause and wonder if it’s true.

Finally, it was nearly thirty years ago that you sat in the restaurant booth across from her, looking into dancing blue eyes and celebrating one year together as boyfriend and girlfriend.

“What did I say?” you remember saying as you carefully wiped a bit of mustard off your face.

“You said we’d be together a year and that we’d come back here and you’d tell me so,” your future bride replied, self consciously covering her mouth while she finished chewing.

“Told you! We are meant for each other, and we’ll be doing this for the next 75 years, you watch. Want another beer?  Let’s celebrate.”

Now as you sit across from her you see eyes even more beautiful and the smile as effervescent as ever only now enhanced by wisdom and love.

“Remember that place like this we used to go to when we first started going out?” you ask.

She smiles, nods and quietly says, “I sure do.”

The waiter comes along to see how your meal is, discerns these two older folks are deep in a conversation and politely excuses himself.

You look over at this marvelous woman who bore you three children, raised them into fine young adults and is as fetching as she ever was.

“What did I say?” you say to her as you smile.

And she says, “Huh?

You pick some quesadilla out from between your teeth. “What was I just talking about?”

“I don’t remember. *burp* Want another beer?”

Pushing 50, Empty Nest version.

One of my favorite things is to just watch them when they are sleeping. I realized the other night that they even have distinctive personalities while they snooze, and as I peeked in their bedroom doors, I marveled, I wondered, and I worried.

Big Sis snuggles under a mound of covers and pillows and stuffed animals. She never sleeps long ways; she's always at an angle to either side. At thirteen, she's begun that love affair with sleep we all got as teens, and as she snuggles buried beneath it all somewhere in the bed, I see her taking on more and more responsibility in her young life. Still, it is her capacity for compassion and serving stuns me; I’ve never known anyone with as much as her.

Brother curls into the fetal position, sometimes covered, sometimes not. He is surrounded by many things, but mostly potential. I walk a fine line between pushing him and allowing him. He flat out does most things well. And he's great fun.

My biggest sigh for him comes when I think about him leaving, whenever that might be. I remember a little thing he brought home from kindergarten one day. It was a small school picture of him, pasted to a poem his teacher got from a book. The message of the poem was, "here's this picture so you can remember me as I was at six years old, because I won't always be six.” And like a ton of bricks, it hit me and the missus. They all won't be six someday. It was very quiet that evening.

Little Sis has the security of her little stuffed friends everywhere. Coloring books and little signs she's made and pictures of her with everyone adorn her room. The baby, always looking for that reassurance from everyone. 

She asked me one day, "Do veterinarians have to take social studies?” That's what she wants to be, a vet. She's our resident animal person. When crickets get in the house, she's the one that carefully corrals them, and gently sets them down outside. She chases flies out the door rather than swat them, and once a week, we'll get the, "can we get a (rabbit, hamster, mouse, more fish, dog friend for our dog, etc.).” She was born to take care of things, I think.

They're all different, even as they sleep. They're all great joys; I've been blessed more than I deserve. And as I sigh tonight watching them snuggled in their beds, this quote comes to mind:

"I just want him to stay with me till I can be sure he won't turn into a Norman Nothing. . . (one of those nice dead people) I want him to be sure he'll know when he's chickening out on himself. I want him to get to know exactly the special thing he is or else he won't notice it when it starts to go. I want him to stay awake and know who the phonies are. . . . I want a little gut to show before I can let him go. I want to be sure he sees all the wild possibilities. I want him to know it's worth all the trouble just to give the world a little goosing when you get the chance. And I want him to know that subtle, sneaky, important reason why he was born a human being and not a chair."

- A character in the play, "A Thousand Clowns," regarding his son.

She stood in the on-deck circle, surveying the field like a six-time all star. A tug on each batting glove, a slap on the batting helmet, and three ferocious practice swings. It was up to my eleven-year-old to keep the inning going in her first official at bat against a real pitcher. She takes three meek swings - trying to keep an eye on the ball and swing hard is a lot tougher than it looks - and heads back to the bench, a strikeout victim. And I'm glad she is.

It seems as if we are becoming less tolerant of the learning process, of the patience it takes to learn (and teach), and it seems we've lost the capacity to understand the importance of allowing mistakes. We've become so busy, there's no time for all that; I'm guilty of it more than anyone, that's for sure. 

I remember a night a few years back when, after a particularly frustrating day, I went to bed praying for an answer, a sign, as to what was next. I woke up in the middle of the night and I knew I'd gotten my answer, knew I'd had the whole thing explained to me in detail. Thing is, all I could remember is one thing: the word "patience.”

As the team packs up the equipment, my strikeout victim heads for the far end of the bench and plops down with pursed lips and folded arms. I poke Brother in the side and say, "Go tell your sister I said thanks, we felt the breeze all the way over here on the last swing.” Very happy to oblige, he runs over and tells her. I see her trying to not laugh, but doing a poor job of keeping that smile off her face. I walk over to her.

"Hey," I tell her, "you're gonna strikeout fifty more times this year, even if you have a great year, so get used to it. You just started playing the game and it will take some time to learn. So, relax and screw up and learn. It's what's supposed to happen."

I feel pretty good about this piece of advice but I notice she's still pouting. "Don't worry about the strikeout," I say again.

"I'm not worried about that, I heard what you said. It's this stupid nail I just cracked."

"Oh, well, be patient. It'll grow back."

"I know, but then the others will be longer than it is and my hands will look goofy. Can I get fake nails, Dad?"

I walk away, shaking my head. I know I will not make it to someone's twelfth birthday. And suddenly, a wind blows through the trees. Know how, with the right speed and the right trees, wind can make all sorts of strange sound? Well, this must have been the right tree and it was a good wind, because I know I heard a sound. Like a voice. Uttering one word. 

"Patience." 

Our eight-year-old possesses the rarest of gifts - the ability to delight in exactly where he finds himself. He gets up in the morning, rubs the sleep from his eyes and begins a journey towards his most favorite of destinations: The Land of Now.

When it's time to eat breakfast he pours himself a huge, Jethro-sized bowl of cereal, splashes some milk over it and slowly enjoys the feast. And to him it is a feast. Then he pours another, and another. Properly fitted with the obligatory appetite of a thousand men, the king of third gradeness enjoys this activity we all tediously robot through each morning. Because it's what he's doing now… and he enjoys now.

When you take a shower, you wash, grab a towel, and dry off. Him?

I peek in the shower, and there he is. Standing in the shower but out of the stream, fully soaped, with the funny papers in his hands.

"Brother! What are you doing?”

With a voice thickly laced in logic, he educates me.

"I'm soaking. You told me all good dishwashers soak their dishes before they wash them, so I'm being a good body washer and soaking myself."

"Well, soak with the water off, you're wasting it," I say, hiding my grin.

"Okay." 

For the next few minutes he is a good body washer, soaking in suds while he reads the funnies. I peek in a few minutes later, and see him carefully gripping a handful of the bottom of the bath towel, lifting it off the door hook, seeing how long he can keep it pointing straight up in the air. And thoroughly enjoying the moment.

Whatever he's doing now, he could easily do for the next hundred years - with a supper break, of course, and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich or two. He operates under the, “I play, therefore, I am,” axiom. Things don't get old; they ferment and grow rich, like a fine wine. If it was fun a minute ago, just think how much fun it will be in another minute.

My biggest job with him will be to make sure he doesn't lose that attitude. Maybe then he won't grow one of these forehead furrows. The first time I see it starting to crease his forehead, I'll remind him how special his outlook on life is.

Maybe I'll do it now.

Per the previous post, I'd like to have a stroll down the lane known as Memory. A few days ago we become empty nesters when our youngest moved into an apartment and now our three chilluns'; Big Sis, Brother, and Lil' Sis are out in the world, leaving us with empty rooms, a confused dog and a need to "go shopping for new stuff."

1989

So I sit here in the rocker and watch you, Lil’ Sis. It's 1:30 AM, and the chubbiest baby God ever put on earth has her first stuffy nose.

As big as a house you are - little toes pointing up in the air, Popeye forearms folded across your chest ever so daintily - and both of us trying to coax your eyes to close.

You are my third child, special, yet no different, close yet far away; all the ironies and paradoxes inherent in all kids after the first couple. I have a feeling my parents weren't as "close" to me as they were to the first three, but I don't feel cheated. I got the experienced parents. I think mom and dad look to kid number three and so on for a renewal; seems we fret less over them.

Anyway, Lil’ Sis it goes like this: Big Sis and Brother have to turn out right. You, I think, just will be. 

Big Sis will have serious, passionate questions, and I'll struggle to maintain my poise and calm as I answer her. Brother will either produce and create raging anger or entertain us with side splitting laughter. My words and deeds will prove critical in their guidance.

You will be free and easy, with an occasional loud and clear demand for attention. Even at five months, I see your internal compass and I’m thinking it’s Swiss – works real well. You will come for hugs when you need them. You will come to me when you have joy to share. You will come to me so we can laugh about troubles.

You will make me a good dad.

About a month ago, Lil Sis announced her and a friend intended to find an apartment and her time frame showed a very soon move-in date. 

“Yeah, whatever,” the missus and I mumbled.

Well, she wasn’t kidding and as soon as the seriousness grew obvious, the banana peels commenced to piling up.

It’s a strange time, really.  It’s not a surprise that the time has come, but my personal opinion is I’ve not done a whole lot to beat my chest about in regards to being a husband or a father, but as a dad? Head Zoo keeper, if you will.

It’s been my favorite job of all time. I learned ‘em how to have F-U-N soon as they were able to make us laugh, because I’ve always thought having fun was, well, fun! (The Man used my world-view against me on performance reviews for years…but that’s another blog.)

Now, I know nothing actually changes, relationship-wise but the dynamics will; some of you who have pushed past 50 know all too well. My other two kiddos moved out two and three years ago, so I know the role changes. This one is different for obvious reasons.  She’s the baby - the one dribbling rice cereal on her bib a few short years ago? Well, just about twenty short years ago, anyway. 

It’s a mish-mash of emotions, and a fruit salad that will take some time to pick through. Over the next little while I’d like to share some stuff from when they were all younger. It’ll be fun. I think Mighty Joe will enjoy it too. 

(To Pushing 50's who find themselves in a tough spot, career-wise - been there, done that, boys. Keep your smile on, your resume updated ...)

The air temperature was ninety-two, but in his small enclosed space, it felt more like one hundred and ninety two. More sweat, always more sweat, but somehow he found the strength, the guts... the gas in the tank to carry on.

His assistant ventured into the room, and cleared her throat, but he waved her away like a broom sweeping dirt and grass from a sidewalk.

The software program on the rocket booster was all dorked up for some reason, and although this technical stuff was foreign territory -- he was a nuts and bolts man -- he plunged ahead. There wasn't enough time to call the engineering guru in. He'd mow this problem down himself.

Minutes turned to hours. As he worked, he thought about the assistant. The world famous rocket scientist figured she secretly had a crush on him, but it mattered little. The work was the important thing. National security was not a trifling matter, and it left little time for affairs of the heart.

Late in the day -- isn't that how these things usually go? -- he turned a wire this way instead of that way. He swore he'd done this a thousand times, but in reality probably never had. It did the trick.

He had to calm his hands and steel his nerves against the mistakes of enthusiasm. Piece fit into piece quickly now, and he hummed along with deliberate efficiency. It went together like ham and eggs, like chips and salsa, like Briggs and Stratton.

The assistant stuck her head in the room. He paused to look at her, and for some reason, he hadn't ever recalled her as lovely. Maybe there was a possibility...

Moments later…finished. He paused, leaned back against the wall, and closed his eyes. It was done. The tears welled up, and he let them flow. They flowed for all the sacrifices, for what this would mean to mankind.

He stuck his head out the huge door, and the sun instantly blinded him. It warmed him in a strange motherly way. Mother. How proud she would be, how she would beam at his accomplishment. There was only one thing left to do.

He began his countdown, silently at first, then aloud. As he got to, "Five-four-three," he shouted it. The joy was unbearable. He screamed, "Two-one," at the top of his lungs as great tidal waves of tears crashed down his cheeks, and then "zero," and then the moment.

It roared to life.

He jumped around like a child. Giddy, loosey-goosey. The sheer magnitude of his accomplishment hit him, and he crumpled into a heap on the floor. Then the assistant came into the garage.

"What's all the shouting about?" my wife asked. "Anyway, I guess I'll call the repair shop about the lawnmower and see when. . . . Hey! You fixed the lawnmower?"

"Yes! Yes!" I yelled with eyes blazing. "We have lift-off!" And I got up and danced around some more, pushing the machine around the garage, pulling the new shortened cord to start it, shutting it off, and pulling it again.

"Bubba," she said as she looked over her sunglasses, "we gotta get you back to work soon. By the way, the handle on the toilet broke, I don't know if there's anything you can do, but. . . "

"Um, I'll go see."

* * * *

The bang from the bilge tank almost made him drop the fragile Flapper Valve Reactor Core.

"I should post a "Do Not Disturb' sign," the world famous unemployed nuclear ship builder thought to himself. . .

(...and start a journal!)

I have a couple three pair of shorts I call my everyday shorts. They are properly tore up, and reach about mid thigh.  They’re worn as PJ’s, worn around the house, for cutting the grass, cooking on the grill, and watching TV. I also have shorts for going out into the world; the kind the missus gets now and then at The Store. 

The Store is a retail outlet that often sends out double super secret mail discount stickers. When the missus gets a 30% off sticker, she immediately and repeatedly smacks her hand on her mouth, making a, “Loo-loo-loo-loo”, sound. She dances around chicken bones on the kitchen floor and calls the neighbor. I hear the reply (“loo-loo-loo-loo”) and they head over there, intent on implementing their own, more localized, financial bailout package. Then I usually end up with new, strange, and allegedly fashionable knick-knacks in my house. And, as illustrated in this story, a pair of shorts.

The shorts added to my *cough* extensive wardrobe the last couple years look strange to me. They looked strange the minute I saw them strewn across the bed, new tags hanging jauntily off to the side.  I’m not a little guy, but they looked…well…seldom does a Pushing 50 husband question what the missus buys him for clothes unless it’s ‘that’ shirt (a discussion for another day), so I just put them on.

Man, they are long, I thought. Like baseball pants long. But when I put on my well-worn, everyday shorts, I notice they kinda look like something Will Ferrell wears in his movies.  Hmmm.

As each generation meanders into its late teen and early twenties, it embraces a set of sillier than all get-out fashion rules.  Each generation honestly thinks those rules make common sense; they also know the generations before it had sillier than all get-out fashion rules. My twentysomething son and son-in-law were having a conversation the other day, and then they were talking about shorts.

I don’t know the exact context, but one of them said to the other, “Yeah, I wore them too, but my knees showed and it really sucked.” 

The other one laughed knowingly and said, “Yeah, I know what you mean.”

O-o-oh, I thought. Now I get it. Cool guys don’t show their knees. Got it. But what is a Pushing 50er supposed to do for shorts? Cool went out the door a long time ago; we just need to be comfortable. The waters are muddy, that’s for sure.

It’s this generation’s turn, I guess. So just to make sure I have it straight, a guy can’t show his knees, but if he chooses, he can show half his print drawers. Right?