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<title>The Departure Year</title><link>http://www.nicolebokat.com/index.html</link><description>Notes and observations on the emptying of the nest</description><dc:language>en</dc:language><dc:creator>Nicole Bokat</dc:creator><dc:rights>Copyright&#x2c; 2012&#x2c; Nicole Bokat</dc:rights><dc:date>2012-02-21T15:18:59-05:00</dc:date><admin:generatorAgent rdf:resource="http://www.realmacsoftware.com/" />
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<lastBuildDate>Tue, 27 Dec 2011 14:20:22 -0500</lastBuildDate><item><title>Gone to the Dogs</title><dc:creator>Nicole Bokat</dc:creator><dc:subject>Blog</dc:subject><dc:date>2012-02-21T15:18:59-05:00</dc:date><link>http://www.nicolebokat.com/blog/files/2fea097dac1f27cc8a434e2f9dbaf0e8-17.html#unique-entry-id-17</link><guid isPermaLink="true">http://www.nicolebokat.com/blog/files/2fea097dac1f27cc8a434e2f9dbaf0e8-17.html#unique-entry-id-17</guid><content:encoded><![CDATA[These are the wake up calls of the adorable puppy across the street who looks like a hairy sausage roll with the head and floppy ears of a German Shepherd and the short, fat legs of a claw-footed bathtub.  

...This cacophony has been the norm for so long now that my son and I can easily distinguish between the various pets on the block by bark alone.  

...We&rsquo;ve talked to the non-dog owners on the street but most are non-committal; either they don&rsquo;t work from home or they don&rsquo;t want to make waves.  

...I grew up with them, and we&rsquo;ve had dogs since before my first son was born: Quincy, a huge male Lab and, when he died, Ginny, our female Lab who is still with us.  

...I experienced a sense of mourning at the thought of giving up our home, the one in which my sons grew up, the basement filled with memorabilia: crayon drawings of Sponge Bob; water-logged copies of Escape of Marvin the Ape and Shy Charles; piles of corrected homework on thick lined pages; pamphlets of concerts and playbills of school productions.  

...On that day, the electricians were there and the doors to the back yard were open; apparently, they&rsquo;d been instructed to let the little dog, who was sick, stay outside.  ]]></content:encoded></item><item><title>Let&#x27;s Hear it for the Girls</title><dc:creator>Nicole Bokat</dc:creator><dc:subject>Blog</dc:subject><dc:date>2012-02-09T20:45:01-05:00</dc:date><link>http://www.nicolebokat.com/blog/files/4de2673901701b05baba071f37c320c4-16.html#unique-entry-id-16</link><guid isPermaLink="true">http://www.nicolebokat.com/blog/files/4de2673901701b05baba071f37c320c4-16.html#unique-entry-id-16</guid><content:encoded><![CDATA[What I saw astounded me: teenagers crammed into my tiny kitchen, cleaning, scrubbing, loading the dishwasher&mdash;it was like a scene out of the animated Cinderella, where the mice sing &ldquo;We can do it.  

...As a toddler, my son was drawn to babysitters with long, flowing hair: the lovely early childhood grad student, freckled and smiley, with the mass of strawberry blond curls; the exotic Argentinean actress who showed up in her high-heeled dance shoes, her sleek, thick ponytail bouncing down her back when she strode, pigeon-toed into our house.  

...If I asked a specific question of one of the boys&mdash;about his family, school, or any of his favorite activities&mdash;I&rsquo;d usually get a response along the lines of, &ldquo;Huh, Good.  

...While there are usually boys in the mix, the majority have double X chromosomes&mdash;which is fine with me, as I&rsquo;ve spent over two decades in an estrogen-deficient home (three males and me).  

...I scarcely know any one who cannot do all this, and I am sure I never heard a young lady spoken of for the first time, without being informed that she was very accomplished.&rsquo; 

...These amazing &ldquo;young ladies&rdquo; play string instruments in regional and all-state orchestras, compete in national science and economic competitions, sing beautifully, river dance, row on the crew team, ace AP Chemistry and English tests, arrange dinners to raise thousands of dollars to save Darfur, build theater sets and aim to become engineers and policy makers.  ]]></content:encoded></item><item><title>Do-over Dreams</title><dc:creator>Nicole Bokat</dc:creator><dc:subject>Blog</dc:subject><dc:date>2012-01-23T10:40:05-05:00</dc:date><link>http://www.nicolebokat.com/blog/files/465fbe0827e60861581a93492fb050bf-15.html#unique-entry-id-15</link><guid isPermaLink="true">http://www.nicolebokat.com/blog/files/465fbe0827e60861581a93492fb050bf-15.html#unique-entry-id-15</guid><content:encoded><![CDATA[In another dream, I&rsquo;d failed to show up to defend my dissertation or hadn&rsquo;t revised some crucial passage which would earn me a literal wax stamp of approval.  ...  Mary: the secretary who warned me that the Irish professor in his plaid slacks and emerald green shirts, would chase me around his desk, despite his reliance on his polished cane just to walk.


...Irving&rsquo;s father had been shot by the Czar&rsquo;s men right in front of him; his mother and siblings were later killed in the street by the Nazis.  

...I remember how frustrated one competitive boyfriend of mine would get when my Great Uncle Morty&mdash;well into his eighties&mdash;won every game of Trivial Pursuit we played against him.  

...I remember watching my father, a week before he died, trying to eat one of his red popsicles; the skin around his hands was draped so loosely, it foretold his future.  

...When we left, the last time I&rsquo;d see him at home, my father hugged me to his brittle body, apologizing for his condition, the fact that he couldn&rsquo;t eat.  ]]></content:encoded></item><item><title>In Miten Drinen &#xa;(In the middle of everything)</title><dc:creator>Nicole Bokat</dc:creator><dc:subject>Blog</dc:subject><dc:date>2012-01-13T14:59:22-05:00</dc:date><link>http://www.nicolebokat.com/blog/files/f72ee21ebd7169bf48b6380dbf5f28ad-9.html#unique-entry-id-9</link><guid isPermaLink="true">http://www.nicolebokat.com/blog/files/f72ee21ebd7169bf48b6380dbf5f28ad-9.html#unique-entry-id-9</guid><content:encoded><![CDATA[My husband, who had been working from home that day, drove while I made one call after the other to: my sister in Maine, my aunt in New Jersey, my mother&rsquo;s two best friends on Long Island and another to my brother, who was shaken up and planning to take the Red Eye from LA.    I tried to gather information on my mother&rsquo;s condition, but all anyone knew for certain was that she was able to hobble  to let in the EMS workers&mdash;a good sign&mdash;and that she hadn&rsquo;t been taken to &ldquo;her&rdquo; hospital, the one in which she worked as a social worker for over twenty-five years.  

...But she was propped up on her elbow, smiling, and talking to the resident&mdash;a short, thin, be-speckled boy who looked like he could be my older son&rsquo;s classmate.  

...This time, my mother didn&rsquo;t seem to be in grave danger; but no one was taking any chances, despite my mother&rsquo;s protests: &ldquo;I&rsquo;m not up for playing hostess.&rdquo;    I discussed, with my siblings, what little I knew about my mother&rsquo;s condition&mdash;and what my sister and her husband could gather from talking to her neurologist&mdash;as I paced the halls.  

...I collapsed in the chair next to my mother&rsquo;s bed and complained about the &ldquo;beeping&rdquo; to the cheerleader of a nurse--who happily reported my mother was the most talkative patient she&rsquo;d ever had on the stroke unit--and tried not to stare at the youngish woman weeping quietly on the chair next to her sleeping (also youngish) husband&rsquo;s bed.  ]]></content:encoded></item><item><title>In Anticipation of the Inevitable</title><dc:creator>Nicole Bokat</dc:creator><dc:subject>Blog</dc:subject><dc:date>2012-01-03T15:53:30-05:00</dc:date><link>http://www.nicolebokat.com/blog/files/d0aaa0e96d27f976c223db9a41fae1a5-3.html#unique-entry-id-3</link><guid isPermaLink="true">http://www.nicolebokat.com/blog/files/d0aaa0e96d27f976c223db9a41fae1a5-3.html#unique-entry-id-3</guid><content:encoded><![CDATA[His entry into the world was a hard one: he was delivered by emergency C-section after I was rushed into the operating room, knocked out with general anesthesia, and torn open like a curtain, which branded me with a thick scar and robbed me of all muscle tone in my abdomen.  

...How will it feel without my younger boy&rsquo;s voice belting out songs in his rich baritone, baking his chocolate ganache cake, gathering with his friends to construct a physics project or to have movie night in our living room, laughter rising like smoke up to our bedroom?


...On one of our early trips, he refused to let me hug him in public; he was embarrassed that his parents were on campus on a weekend when other Freshman&rsquo;s families were not there.  

...The morning after my first boy was born&mdash;after a long day of painful back labor&mdash;I propped myself up in my hospital bed, reached for my notes and proceeded to work on my doctoral thesis.  

...I gave up that dream, after interviewing for a full time job while five months pregnant, sweating, my stockings having torn en route, my brain foggy, focused only on the crackers in my pocketbook and the moment I could finally tear open the wrapping.  

...The part of my life I thought would be the most difficult, for which I&rsquo;d figured myself the least equipped,  has turned out to be the most fulfilling and, astonishingly, required less effort  than work I&rsquo;d spent my twenties honing myself to do.  ]]></content:encoded></item></channel>
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