When Your College Student Doesn't Call Home

I’m going to begin with a disclaimer: I have sons – three of them – and so any advice I have is a result of the male mindset. From what I hear, it seems as if daughters are better than sons about emailing, texting, calling, and being more communicative, but I’m aware that this is a huge generalization. There are daughters who don’t call home, just as I know there are sons who faithfully call their moms. In our household, we fall somewhere in-between -- sometimes they call, and sometimes they don't. But now that we have two done finished with college, and one about to start his sophomore year, here is what we've learned along the way.

1. When our sons don’t call home it doesn’t mean they don’t love us. Or need us. Believe me, the second they need their winter jacket or help with a resume, they will call. And they will be so nice about it.
2. We ask for one day a week – we let them choose – in which they are expected to call home. This puts the ball in their court and allows them to take the lead. A friend of mine once told me that she had to train her sons in this area, and I am so glad took her advice. For us, Sunday evening is the time we catch up with our sons. That doesn’t mean we don’t/can’t talk during the week, but at least on Sunday evening our sons take a break from their busy college lives and think of their family back home. Sometimes the call comes in the afternoon, sometimes in the evening, and sometimes late at night – but that’s okay.
3. They are expected to respond to our texts.  We have watched our sons arrive late for dinner, stop in the middle of a conversation, or rush out at the end of church in order to answer a text from a friend. We know they will do anything to answer a text, and as parents we deserve the same courtesy. But there is a caveat . . . and it is IMPORTANT so listen up: We do not text our sons all they time. They need their space, and the last thing we want to do is hover-text (and yes, I just made up that word).
4. When they call, we don’t grill them about everything they’ve been doing. It’s a conversation, which means information flows both ways. They share a little of their life and then we give them some news from home. For them to hear about Dad’s new car, their baby brother’s latest Lego creation, or what we did for Friday Family Night will remind them that we are still family and that they are still an important part of it … even though they are way over there, and we are over here.

Of course, things happen. Sometimes they will “forget” to text back, sometimes Sunday’s call comes Monday morning, and sometimes they call but aren’t talkative, but it’s all good. Besides, I know how to get the communication flowing ...

Two words: Care Package

And To All a Good Night . . .

Tonight I will sleep.

I won't be listening for odd noises, or getting up to make sure windows and doors are locked, or have a sleepless night like I do whenever Joe is out of town.

I won't toss and turn worrying about Jonathan in Atlanta.

Or stay awake thinking about Nicholas in Little Rock. 

And I won't wait for Timothy's text informing me he's driving home from work. 

No, I won't do any of those things because tonight ... we are all home.

Together.

So tonight I will sleep.

 

 

A Life Lesson . . . Spot on

Life lately seems to be so much about labels--democrat, republican, black, white, mask wearer, non-mask wearer--that we forget there is a person behind the label...

A few years ago I needed to find a way to teach my son not to always focus on the negative. So one day as he was having his afternoon snack I placed a red circle sticker in the middle of my forehead and sat down across from him.

"Hi, sweetie," I said. "Do you notice anything?"

"Yeah, Mom. You have a sticker in the middle of your forehead."

"Is that all that you see?" I asked.

"Are you trying to be like those women from India with those red dots on their foreheads?"

"No, I'm not trying to be anyone else," I assured him. "What else do you see?"

He thought about it, and tried again: a target? (no); a zit band aid? (definitely no); a third eye? (the better to see you with ... but no).

I finally took pity on him.

"I know you see this red spot on my forehead," I said. "But don't you also see me?"

He was a little taken aback. We then talked about how focusing on one aspect of a person limits our understanding of that person, just as focusing on the negative makes it all too easy to let the one thing that hasn't gone right distract us from everything else that has. 

He's a bright boy; he got the point.

I used this same lesson one day when I was teaching high school and some of my students had been laughing at another teacher's quirky character trait, a teacher who stayed after school to help students with their homework and who attended every single sporting event to cheer for them. I drew a circle in the middle of a big piece of paper and went around the room asking everyone what they saw. They saw a circle, a black hole, a planet . . . but NOT ONE person said they saw a piece of paper. When I pointed this out to them and mentioned the teacher's name, they became quiet.

They, too, got the point.

We can complain because rose bushes have thorns,

or rejoice because thorn bushes have roses.

~Abraham Lincoln

 

Timothy, Italy 2006

Buen Camino: Finding the Way

For you, on this Feast Day of St. James ... 

           

In the very northwest corner of Spain is a beautiful shrine called the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela where, according to tradition, the apostle St. James is buried. Beginning in the 9th century, this cathedral was the destination of what became known as The Way of St. James (El Camino de Santiago), a leading pilgrimage route for people all over Europe; in fact, the pilgrimage to the shrine became the most renowned in Europe, and it was customary for those who returned from their pilgrimage to bring back a scalloped shell as proof they made it to the coast and completed their journey. Over time, the scalloped shell became a traditional symbol of the pilgrim because the shell’s grooves, which meet at a single point, represent the various routes to Santiago de Compostela.

           

Today, people still make that pilgrimage, walking el camino (the way) over mountain ranges, alongside streams, through beautiful open fields and, at the end of each day, stopping to rest in one of the countless villages along the way. The pilgrims typically carry three things: a walking stick, a scalloped shell as symbol that they are a pilgrim, and a “pilgrim passport” which is stamped with an official St. James stamp at every village where they stop to spend the night. By the time they reach their destination this passport is filled with stamps marking the points along their walk.

           

Just this week I watched a beautiful movie entitled The Way starring Martin Sheen and directed by his son, Emilio Estevez. The movie tells the story of a grieving father walking to Santiago de Compostela carrying the cremated remains of his son. Along the way he meets other pilgrims, each one with a different reason for walking el camino: to lose weight, to get over a relationship, to grieve, to find God. Even those who were doing it for no reason whatsoever, in the end, found meaning.

           

Perhaps the most beautiful part of this modern day pilgrimage is this: over and over, as people pass each other on el camino, sit down for a meal together at the end of the day or stand in line to get their passports stamped, you hear them wishing each other a buen camino. Translated literally, buen camino means “a good walk/path”, but within the context of a pilgrimage the phrase takes on a deeper meaning. To wish someone a buen camino is to wish them well in finding meaning and purpose on their pilgrimage.

           

And during this time in which the way is unclear, this is what I wish for you … a buen camino. 

Speak to Me Sunday: What to Expect from Your High School Senior when Choosing a College

This week Timothy, received two college letters inviting him to sign up for a college campus visit. Yes, he's only in the tenth grade, but ... sophomore today, senior tomorrow. We know this time flies by quickly. Admittedly, he was excited. Timothy read both letters and asked a million questions. Is it a good college? Where is it? Do they have an engineering program? Will I live in a dorm? A few years ago he watched his two older brothers go through the process (and was even dragged to several campus visits) so he's excited about it finally being his turn (whether or not I'm ready is an entirely different matter). Yes, it's an exciting time, but it's also time for the nitty gritty of finances, logistics, and yes, even practicality. One decision at a time ...

It's been a summer of college campus tours, all of which have been fun, informative, and have shown our son a future bright with opportunities. It was our way to showcase the great big world out there, and to have our son see himself as a vibrant part of it.

I realize this may sound idealistic, perhaps even naïve, but knowing what is out there is a great place to start. It’s great to have choices (they are gifts!) but we also know choices need to be whittled down because, ultimately, decisions need to be made.  

This, then, is the nitty gritty part of life in which we ponder, weigh, compare, analyze, formulate, calculate, and question. So, while we want our son to reach for the stars, we also want to teach him the practical aspects on how to navigate in order to get there. And there are so many things to take into consideration.

First and foremost, finances. Our son has a good life. He lives in a nice house, he goes to a great school, he has traveled to Europe, and he has a loving, supportive family. But part of being a good steward of God’s gifts is not taking anything for granted, and my husband and I are not going to just hand him four years wrapped up with a nice, neat bow; rather, he is very involved in the financial aspects of his college education and knows that he's expected to contribute. 

Location is another consideration. How far away is too far away, and how close is too close? We laugh about this sometime, and on bad days Joe and I think, Alaska is good. We also have to consider that fact that Georgia offers the Hope Scholarship (tuition is mostly covered if a certain grade point average is maintained), and while this is a huge incentive for choosing to stay in-state, it’s just that, an incentive, and not a done deal.

Then there is gut instinct, that visceral reaction which should never be ignored.  There have been campus visits in which, right away, we just didn’t feel it. It wasn’t something specific, just a feeling. On the flip side, we knew we were on to something when we heard our son say, “I can see myself going here.”

Oh, there is more to decide and consider. We could go on and on about student loans, meal plans, early admission … and on it goes.

On our dining room table is a huge black box with hanging files containing scholarship information, application deadlines, essay prompts, and test scores. The nitty gritty in all its glory. We look at the box, and yes, each of those files is calling for a decision to be made, but here’s the thing: we don’t need to make all the decisions at once.

Know what, then see where.

Decide where, and then work on the how.

And through it all we pray, which helps the nitty gritty not seem so … nitty gritty.

college: two sons down, one to go

Timothy, following his older brother

graduation day at Clemson University

Boy, Oh Boy

I'm surrounded by boys, and sometimes ...

Sometimes, after spending all day cooking, I wish they would linger over the meal and not wolf everything down in two seconds.

Sometimes, I could do with less wrestling matches in the house.

Sometimes, I'd like someone to go to the mall with me and not act like they're being tortured.

Sometimes, I would like to watch a Saturday afternoon movie instead of basketball, football, or golf.

Sometimes, I get tired of tripping over size 12 sneakers all over the place.

Sometimes, I wish for something pink in my house.

Sometimes, I'd like to walk into a clean boys' bathroom.

And sometimes ...

Sometimes when they sing in the shower, lean over my shoulder to see what I am writing, kneel next to me in church, show me their latest essay, call just to talk, or plant a sloppy kiss on my cheek, then I think ...

I wouldn't have it any other way.

Noted

Do you note?

I am all about the note. I take notes, write notes, leave notes, and send notes. My notes can be funny, inspirational, and instructional. Sometimes all three. Sometimes they even come from the files of very bad poetry by Bia.

Instructional. Definitely.

from the files of very bad poetry by bia

Inspirational ... school is cool! Right?!?

instructional ... mental note

supposed to be funny, but epic fail

instructional (i.e. a mom threat)
all these shelves, and the shoes are usually on the floor.

One of my masterpieces ;-)
funny + inspirational + instructional + from the files of very bad poetry by bia

inspirational

            NOW I NEED A NOTE FOR THIS PROFUSION OF LEFT-OPEN DRAWERS!

Taken by Surprise

Yesterday Timothy asked if I would proofread his essay on the intersection of health and technology. It was a very good essay, but I had a few suggestions. So I called him over, and as he leaned over me I showed him some ideas on how he could bring together his thesis and concluding paragraph. All of a sudden, he leaned forward and gave me a quick kiss on the cheek.

And just like that I forgot what I was saying.

I have written before how the first time you hold a child in your arms--when it's just the two of you and the world is a far off place--is but a brief moment because you then spend the rest of your life letting go. In little ways (when a child begins to crawl or takes that first step) and in big ones (the first day of kindergarten or freshman year in college) you are watching them go.

As I am typing this I am all too aware that this afternoon, as soon as school is finished, Timothy will be taking the test for his learner's permit, which starts a whole new chapter in the art of letting go.

But then I think of that sweet kiss on my cheek. So nice. So unexpected.

And it's all good.

Speak to Me Sunday: The One Parenting Rule that Works

On Speak to Me Sunday a few weeks ago I shared a post entitled, I know nothing about parenting, but I will tell you the nothing I know. And it's true, I know nothing. BUT I did share ONE ALL IMPORTANT RULE that is vital in order to maintain a healthy parent-teen relationship. Here's an honest, true life example from a few years ago ...

Here’s what I know about raising teenagers: Nothing.

I can’t give you any advice, and I don’t have any words of wisdom; maybe if you check back with me when they’re all grown I can look back and come up with an answer or two, but until then Joe and I (like most of you) are making this whole parenting thing up as we go along.

A few years ago I wrote a post about the caveman tendency indicative of teens, and in desperation I visited several Catholic parenting Web sites where I found this, the only thing that has helped me stumble my way through these teen years: the responsibility for developing a healthy parent-teen relationship rests primarily with the parent; that (like it or not) it is really up to us to keep the peace and maintain open lines of communication.

Fast forward a couple of years to this past weekend, and those words once again guided us.

On Friday Joe and I decided to take the family on a last minute trip to the beach. We planned to leave Sunday morning, spend the night in Hilton Head, and return home late Monday afternoon. On Saturday, as we were driving to the Kroc Center for a family workout, we announced the surprise to the boys. Everyone was excited except our oldest.

He didn’t want to go.

What?!? The beach, eating out, surf, sand … and he doesn’t want to go?

He also wasn’t giving us a good reason except to say that he didn’t see the point of driving all that way just for 24 hours.

Emotions were swirling: Nicholas was reticent, his brothers were in a state of disbelief, and Joe and I were more than a little angry. I mean, what was his problem? Well. If we decided we were going as a family then he was, too, and that was just that. He huffed, we puffed, and by the time we arrived to the Kroc Center no one was speaking.

It’s a good thing we were at a gym as it provided plenty of ways to work off frustrations.

As I was running on the treadmill, I thought about that parental advice from a couple of years ago: a healthy parent-teen relationship rests with the parents (okay, that means us) … it’s up to the parents to keep the peace (sigh, us again) … parents need to maintain open lines of communication (right. got it. us again).

After my workout I went to find Nicholas. He, too, was finished and was sitting by the pool watching his baby brother pretend to be Michael Phelps.

I sat down next to him.

“Nicholas,” I began. “I’m trying to understand.”

And just like that, he began to talk. He explained that he had planned to use this three day weekend to get some things done; that he wanted to finish his proposal for his senior project, study for a calculus test, work on an English essay, and completely finish one of his college applications. He was worried that he wouldn’t be able to get everything done before we left on Sunday, and he was worried that he had disappointed us by not wanting to go in the first place.

I listened to my son, and I understood. Totally. I patted him on the shoulder and went to find Joe.

In the end, this is what we decided: Nicholas could stay home by himself. This was a first for all of us, but it was time and he was more than ready to experience a little freedom.

So, while we were in Hilton Head Nicholas worked on his deadlines and his projects. While we were gone he had a friend over for two hours to study, he drove to Nonna and Nonno’s house for dinner, he played cards with them, and then he came back home and watched Ocean’s 11. While we were gone he enjoyed the freedom of eating in front of the television, of not making his bed, and of listening to the stereo while he worked. While we were gone he was responsible, mature, and finished everything on his to-do list.

And it was exactly what he needed.

Reaching out.

Keeping peace.

Maintaining an open line of communication.

Honest to God, parenting keeps us humble. While we may not know what we are doing most of the time … sometimes things manage to work out just right.

And as parents, those are the moments to hold on to.

The Mother's Day I Learned to Chill

I've always felt it terribly ironic that Mother's Day falls in May, one of the busiest months of the year. Graduations, First Communions, Field Days, Early Dismissals, Athletic Banquets, Academic Awards ... the list goes on. Who has time for Mother's Day? But one year, in the midst of all that busyness, I learned to dance the Hoedown Throwdown ...


Last weekend my sixth grader and some of his friends decided to go see Hannah Montana, the Movie. Why that movie? I have no earthly idea. Maybe it was because the group consisted of both boys and girls and this was one they could all agree on.


Since my son was the one who organized this outing, I told him that I was staying with the group as chaperone but that I promised to sit far, far, faaaaaaar away.


So, I went to the movies with a bunch of sixth graders who pretended not to know me.


But that was okay with me . . . after a while, I pretended not to know them because I so wanted to be Hannah Montana.


Suddenly, for two delightful hours I forgot I was a mom and a wife. I didn’t think about 8th grade graduation, school banquets, teachers’ gifts, carpooling . . .


No, instead I wanted to pull out my guitar and play a folk song. I wanted to paint something. I wanted to create, and beautify, and design. I wanted to dance the Hoedown Throwdown.


It’s not that I was nostalgic (or at least, not much anyway), but I think the movie was a subtle reminder for me to just chill.


Lately there had been too much responsibilty and seriousness. Lately there had not been enough fun and silliness.


Then, for Mother’s Day my son gave me the Hannah Montana movie soundtrack complete with links to access the lyrics and the dance video.


What’s for dinner?


I’m not really sure. But wanna dance the Hoedown Throwdown with me?

The Year of Moving Forward in Reverse

It was early in the morning, and my goal was to find the bow of the ship and have a Leonardo DiCaprio/Kate Winslet moment. I wanted to stand at the railing while the sun was rising, feel the ocean breezes, and take in the endless sea.

I wanted to feel like I was flying.

Except, it didn’t happen that way.

If you’ve ever been on a cruise ship, then you know how easy it is to get turned around, especially if you’re walking down an interior corridor without a visual reference from a window. That morning I left our cabin, walked up several flights of stairs, turned a corner here and went around there. I walked a long time until I climbed some iron stairs to a heavy metal door, opened it, and stepped outside to the bow of the ship.

Except it wasn’t the bow. It was the stern, so instead of watching the ship cut into the waves, I was watching the wake it created as it sailed to Cozumel.

And just like that I felt a little defeated. The very next day we would be celebrating New Year’s Eve, and the fact I was standing at the back of a ship instead of the front struck me as more than a little ironic considering the past year. It hadn’t been a good one for me.

Last January, with high hopes and a milestone birthday to look forward to, I embraced 2017 with enthusiasm, hope, and excitement. I felt great mentally, physically, and spiritually. I had plans, goals, dreams … but none of them materialized. Not one.

In March, after three months of gathering birth certificates, filling out applications, and setting a date with the Italian Consulate in Miami, I had to abandon my dream of legally claiming my Italian heritage and applying for dual citizenship.  In the end, due to the political situation and my husband’s security clearance, I had to let it go.

Then, one month later I was diagnosed with PVCs (premature ventricular contractions). While considered benign, I was having so many that they put me on medication, and just like that I went from taking a daily aspirin to now taking a pill twice a day and having to give up any and all caffeine. I was now someone who had a cardiologist. Suddenly, turning fifty didn’t feel empowering, but scary – a sign of bad things to come.

There were two trips to Little Rock, Arkansas to help our son get settled in his life there, trips which were successful in that we got everything done, but also fraught with tension, frazzled nerves, hurt feelings, and tears. Some of these issues still linger and I don't know how to make them go away.

There were discussions on where to send Timothy for high school, discussions in which I felt one way and my husband and son felt another and so it continued for several months until, in the end, I realized I was the one creating strife by refusing to not see another way. So I relented, and while I was grateful for the peace of coming together, I also felt a little defeated and more than a little tired.

It was a year of self doubt, and I questioned whether I was a good enough mother or if I had done enough to give our sons what they needed in this world. Then, returned articles, rejected essays, and a publishing dream in constant limbo made me wonder whether I should close down this blog or if I needed to stop writing altogether.

There were spiritual hardships, too. At church, in the Adoration Chapel, or at my kitchen table I prayed asking for clarity and direction, only to be given answers which I thought were promising but, in reality, resulted in more confusion and doubt. Truly, if I had to describe my spiritual journey during 2017 it would be like this: muddled, foggy, obscure, alone.

To be sure, there were moments of grace -- an unexpected trip to Colorado, a spring break in Washington DC, nighttime walks with Timothy, Friday lunches with Joe, day trips with friends, shopping with Jonathan, an afternoon in an art gallery with my guys -- and I held on to those, recognizing them as gifts they were meant to be.

So that morning on the ship, as I stood at the stern instead of the bow, as I looked backward instead of forward, I thought about the past year and Let It Go. I gathered broken bits and pieces of my heart and my soul, wrapped them with strings of hopes and dreams, and tossed the entire package into the sea. I then turned around and went down the iron steps. I turned a corner here and went around there; I went up several flights of stairs. I walked a long time until I came to a heavy metal door which I pushed opened … and this time stepped out onto the bow of the ship.

I stood at the railing. I watched the sun rise, felt the ocean breezes, and took in the endless sea.

I felt like I was flying.

chocolate and puddles and spoons

I was walking outside with our youngest son, who was four years old at the time. It had rained the night before and as I stepped over and around the puddles, he was jumping right in.


"How do you make mud?" I asked him as he made a truly spectacular splash.


He stopped to think for a minute. Then he smiled.


"First you dig a hole, then you put water and chocolate in it," he answered as he hopped over to the next puddle. "Next time let's bring a spoon."


I had forgotten this conversation until yesterday when I came across it in my journal. That cute little boy, who used to lick the foam off the top of my cappuccino, is now thirteen years old. He's playing basketball, finishing up a Future City science project, insisting (like boys everywhere) that he  does NOT need to wear a coat, and likes talking about engines and gears.


He's also taller than I am and yesterday when I needed to open a jar which was tightly sealed, I handed it to him and he popped it right open.


Sometimes it takes my breath away to stop and savor those moments when you realize your little boy is shedding his childhood and approaching life -- hesitantly, messily, but most assuredly -- as a young man. It is very humbling, more than a little scary, and all kinds of marvelous.


But I do miss those days of chocolate and puddles and spoons.

Transitions

"Now, don't cry when we start carrying his things out of here," said the man from Atlas Van Lines. "The first one out of the house is hard."


Well, I'm not crying . . . yet.


But it is a strange feeling. As I'm typing this, perfect strangers are packing, sorting, and wrapping our son's things into boxes and loading them into a large Atlas moving truck parked in front of our house. After twenty-two years it's all going: the furniture, clothes, art supplies, television, video games, board games, cleaning supplies, posters, and books.


There are more books than anything -- from Dostoyevsky to Naruto -- and, more than anything, I think it's the books that have caused a lump in my throat. Nicholas is the only one in the family who shares my love of reading, and through the years we've exchanged novels and have had wonderful conversations about some of the books we've read.


It's all happening so fast. Today is Nicholas' last day in Denver, tomorrow he flies home, and on Sunday he and Jonathan will drive out to Little Rock, Arkansas. Joe, Timothy, and I will follow a few days later to help Nicholas move in, after which the four of us will say goodbye and go on a little road trip.


I know some may see the finality of a child moving out as an ending, but I like to see it as a transition. There will be a shift in our family dynamics, and certainly a period of adjustment, but it will also be a springboard to new beginnings, traditions, and adventures.


Just the same, though, I think I'll keep a box of tissues nearby.

Getting Down to the Nitty Gritty

Yesterday I wrote about our summer of college campus tours, all of which have been fun, informative, and have shown our son a future bright with opportunities. It was our way to showcase the great big world out there, and to have our son see himself as a vibrant part of it.

I realize this may sound idealistic, perhaps even naive, but knowing what is out there is a great place to start. It’s great to have choices (they are gifts!) but we also know choices eventually whittle down until, ultimately, decisions need to be made.  

This, then, is the nitty gritty part of life in which we ponder, weigh, compare, analyze, formulate, calculate, and question. So, while we want our son to reach for the stars, we also want to teach him the practical aspects on how to navigate in order to get there. And there are so many things to take into consideration.

First and foremost, finances. Our son has a good life. He lives in a nice house, he goes to a private school, he has traveled to Europe, and he has a loving, supportive family. But part of being a good steward of God’s gifts is not taking anything for granted, and my husband and I are not going to just hand him four years wrapped up with a nice, neat bow; rather, he is very involved in the financial aspects of his college education. He knows we will help (a lot), but he also knows that there is the entire family to consider and that he has another brother who is just behind him. He knows that he has to do his part.

Location is another consideration. How far away is too far away, and how close is too close? We laugh about this sometime, and on bad days Joe and I think, Alaska is good. We also have to consider that fact that Georgia offers the Hope Scholarship (tuition is mostly covered if a certain grade point average is maintained), and while this is a huge incentive for choosing to stay in-state, it’s just that, an incentive, and not a done deal.

Then there is gut instinct, that visceral reaction which should never be ignored.  There have been campus visits in which, right away, we just didn’t feel it. It wasn’t something specific, just a feeling. On the flip side, we knew we were on to something when we heard our son say, “I can see myself going here.”

Oh, there is more to decide and consider. We could go on and on about student loans, meal plans, early admission, study abroad possiblities … ay, ay, ay.

On our dining room table is a huge black box with hanging files containing scholarship information, application deadlines, essay prompts, and test scores. The nitty gritty in all its glory. We look at the box, and yes, each of those files is calling for a decision to be made, but here’s the thing: we don’t need to make all the decisions at once.

Know what, then see where.

Decide where, and then work on the how.

And through it all we pray, which helps the nitty gritty not seem so … nitty gritty.

Hopping Smart

Boy is that Easter Bunny generous.


Here is what kind of candy the EB brought: Swedish Fish, Starburst jelly beans, Nerds, Kit Kats, M&M's, and Sour Patch Kids.


Here's what kind of candy the EB did NOT bring: Reese's Peanut Butter Cups, chocolate covered raisins, Haribo Gummi bears, tootsie rolls, or anything milk chocolate.


In other words, Easter baskets didn't contain anything the EB would particularly be interested in eating herself.


The EB has recently lost five pounds and wasn't going to be tempted.


So not only is the EB generous, she is also smart ;-)

Novajosky News: Nicholas' Turn

As an English major/Spanish minor at the University of Georgia, I can say that for every time I stayed up late to finish a paper or research Faulkner’s stream of consciousness writing technique, there were just as many days when I sat under an oak tree discussing Shakespeare or attended a play in order to write a review for the paper; in other words, I remember those days as being pleasantly ensconced among writers and poets and totally devoid of undue stress.

Fast forward a few years and I find myself comparing my college experience with Nicholas’ as he pursues an engineering degree from Clemson University. Here’s what I’ve discovered: engineering is not for wimps and, most definitely, doesn’t include Shakespeare. For Nicholas, the past four years meant many late nights at the library, or marathon study sessions with friends, or working on group design projects. The past four years meant engineering internships every summer and during two Christmas breaks, and then afterwards sitting down with Joe and discussing what he could financially contribute to his tuition.

He’s a hard worker, is our son.

This is not to say that the past few years haven’t been fun. He will graduate this June with many wonderful memories:  the weekend trips to the beach or to Athens, GA to visit friends, the traditional bar crawl when he turned 21, the trivia contests at the pub and, of course, those Clemson football games and watching (on his birthday no less!) the Clemson Tigers win the National Championship. So he definitely had fun, but never at the expense of his studies.

And now here we are, his senior year. This past fall, in the midst of working on a senior design project and maintaining a 4.0 GPA, he diligently submitted resumes and interviewed at job fairs on campus. Then, between homework assignments, oral presentations and a hectic exam schedule, he had a few follow-up interviews which not only involved driving to Augusta (once) and Charlotte (twice), but also flying out to Denver, CO where he had his first “white board” interview which involved using the board to solve problems given to him during the interview. Right there, on the spot.

I broke out in a sweat just hearing about it.

He never wore a suit as often as he did this past semester, and he never called home as much as he did during those days before and after each interview. There were many things to consider, plan, and discuss: he could see himself working in Charlotte, he liked the people he would be working with in Augusta, and he really, really liked the company in Colorado. Also, he wondered in one phone call, would it be okay to fold his suit in a small carry-on?

By December he received two job offers, and earlier this month he signed a contract with the company out in Denver, Colorado. We couldn’t be more excited for him. This May he will find out where he will be located (we're hoping Nashville, TN, or it could be Washington D.C. or even Salt Lake City, Utah) and in June he will begin work after a two week training session at their headquarters in Denver.  And so far the company has been very good to him. A week after signing with them Nicholas received a beautiful, high end laptop backpack in the mail with a personal note welcoming him to the company and, just this past week, company recruiters visiting campus took him and a few students out to dinner.

As parents, nothing is more gratifying then seeing our son make his way in the world, and we are excited these doors of opportunity are being opened to him.  I have always referred to Nicholas as my “Renaissance Man” because his interests and talents are so varied: he’s very good at engineering and math, but he is also a voracious reader; he plays the guitar, follows politics and world affairs, goes to church every Sunday, and is teaching himself how to paint; he is presently taking a basic law class because he thought it would be interesting; and he’s very witty and adored by his baby brother.

It’s the bittersweet truth that children grow up in a heartbeat, and I could never have imagined, all those years ago when I sat under the oak tree discussing Shakespeare, that I would one day have a son who is poised to go off into the world as a young man. It’s exciting, gratifying, heartwarming.

It’s incredibly humbling.