Domestic Waters

Legally, my parenting responsibilities were fulfilled in Spring of 2002 when my youngest child graduated from High School, prepped for collage to the best of my toxic mom abilities. I celebrated with a 3 month language immersion study with Academia Latinoamericana de Espanol, a language school which maintains campuses in Ecuador, Peru and Bolivia. I was able to carry the same course of study through the three countries with extra time to explore the Andes Mountains between the 3 study sets. At the end of the immersion course, Hubs met me in Cusco, Peru to celebrate our 22nd anniversary. I returned to the States feeling confident of my planning for life after motherhood. Theoretically. I love theory. It behaves so well on paper. Alas, the theory was based on the mindset of my own generation. Of course the kids would be as anxious to cut the apron strings as I was at 16 when I wandered away from the clan caravan for the last time. The declaration of 40 as the new 20 was nowhere in the base data for that theory. That's one hell of a wild card. Insert Frank Sinatra croon here. "Bu bu bu bu duh. Duh duh duh duh duh. To be young at heart. . ." Alas, we still don't have a deodorant that can cover up the geezer smells emanating from those young hearts. 40 something and still on Mom and Dad's payroll? How did that happen?

A recurring bubble in my psychobabble the 16 years since then is a sense of domestic waters closing over my head whenever I return to the Urban Homestead. My most recent return in March was no exception. The field expeditions, foreign university studies, etc., never seem to gain much acknowledgement as the family members quickly assume me back into the mommy role. How the fuck should I know what is in the icebox? I haven't been home long enough to look. You tell me. No, I don't know where your friggin socks are, either.

The hygenic paint coat is done on the honey barn. The decades of neglect and apathy still fill the air, even through the latex paint seal, but at least the resident wildlife and accumulated toxins have been thinned enough to make it feel safer to take a closer look at what needs to be done. I have been burning ridiculous amounts of incense in there in hopes of diminishing the aromas of neglect and apathy a bit further. Dare I hope I am making the remaining wildlife uncomfortable, as well?

My project labors have shifted to the free-standing one car garage which stands a few feet from the dilapidated old ranch house. It is the newest and most structurally sound building in the compound, despite the kluge effect created by the stream of dreamers who have rented this property since the in-laws bought it in 1965. A handyman who Hubs found on Craig's List to work various projects here is scheduled to start work on Monday. I still havenae met him, but both Hubs and AB have given him rave reviews. I am pleased with how easily the work I performed last year has slid into the new phase, pretty much as I envisioned it a year and a half ago while the flashbacks following Big Bro's death had me imagining that Big Bro and I were carrying our childhood fantasies forged on farm rental properties much like this one to the next level.

As I wrapped up this morning's labors, I found myself wondering if this round of picking up exactly where I left off here at the ranch is another rendition of those domestic waters closing over my head. If so, it may be an improvement on the theme. Far more palatable than resuming the same arguments I have been having with middle aged sons since they were young and cute kids.

I still carry the sense that Big Bro and I are collaborating on the projects here. I am thoroughly enjoying the luxury of being able to remember our childhood collaborations without triggering in to the flashback hell of our shared traumas. He is really excited about the garage rennovation. Patience, Big Bro. I still have to deal with the corporeal factors of working in triple digit heat. The work is moving at a satisfactory pace.

It sure is hot and dusty out there. . .