Chapter 1: The Transition Begins

I traded my solitary moments in New York for a trip to Florida, where my husband awaited me at my older son’s baseball spring training. Departing, I felt as if I had achieved all my aspirations, my book was nearly ready for publication, and motherhood seemed straightforward, with challenges appearing trivial.

This optimism was easy to maintain while in New York, where I believed that having made it there, I could succeed anywhere. So, off I went to Florida!

Arriving in Orlando just before sunset, I chose to drive in daylight; I’ve learned that my vision becomes more ornamental than functional after dark. Navigating unfamiliar rental cars and poorly lit highways can be daunting, often making me feel like I’m just guessing which way to go, rather than actually driving.

At a pleasant 6 PM, I traveled the 45 minutes to the resort where my son was staying. His team was divided into small groups, housed in rows of prefab buildings—each with its own screened-in pool designed to keep away mosquitoes and alligators. Each house mirrored the next, with only slight variations—an extra window here, a decorative gable there. It was all too easy to mistakenly enter the wrong home.

This confusion became evident when I texted my son to announce my arrival, only to realize I was still three driveways short. After backing out and finally pulling up to the correct place, the light blue door—his house’s only distinguishing feature—opened. There he stood, illuminated from behind, almost like a mirage.

Did he seem different? Perhaps. His hair seemed a bit longer or maybe shorter; I couldn’t quite tell, and that uncertainty unsettled me. One of the most challenging aspects of parenting a college student is grappling with their absence. You become accustomed to knowing every detail about their daily lives, from their wake-up times to their shower routines. Suddenly, they are in a new environment, surrounded by unfamiliar faces who now get to spend time with them—time that once belonged solely to you.

My son introduced me to a stream of players coming in from neighboring houses. Although I had met some teammates before, they all appeared different without their uniforms and caps. They had just enjoyed dinner prepared by one of the team members. I cherish these early adult ecosystems where individuals come together to contribute skills for the collective benefit. However, in this particular setup, it seemed no one had volunteered for cleanup duty—plates were scattered everywhere, some dirty and others clean, as if the table had been set merely for show.

I opened the refrigerator, which was filled with a giant tray of ground beef and an impressive number of eggs. Suggesting we venture out for some non-paleo food, we headed to a local grocery store that felt worlds apart from my New York experiences.

As I watched my son navigate the aisles, searching for foods his teammates would enjoy while keeping track of their allergies, I recognized the foundation of his burgeoning friendships—knowledge that comes from living together around the clock, a natural evolution that requires no formal tracking.

I dropped him off with bags of food destined to last only one meal and embarked on the dark drive back to my hotel, a journey I had hoped to avoid. As I navigated the roads, I reflected on my last visit to Florida, when I was newly engaged and celebrating my grandfather's 80th birthday with family. I recalled telling my fiancé about dinner plans at Olive Garden—his bewilderment at the name amused me, as he had never heard of it before.

About 20 minutes later, I found myself driving through Winter Haven, a seemingly sleepy town. It felt deserted, and I pondered what kind of winter it was a refuge from. Upon arriving at my hotel, I spotted a man grilling behind the building at 10 PM, suggesting he might be a resident. Across the street stood what appeared to be the original McDonald's, its single golden arch making me feel oddly nostalgic.

This was a stark contrast to New York's bustling energy. Winter Haven felt desolate and slightly eerie. Unloading my suitcase, I approached the hotel doors, which swung open to welcome me into a new world—one that felt both strange and familiar.

The lobby was bright and inviting, with cozy seating arrangements and modern amenities. The front desk attendant greeted me as if I were an expected guest in her home, enthusiastically detailing the hotel’s offerings, from free laundry to a complimentary happy hour with snacks and drinks. I smiled politely, knowing I likely wouldn’t join the happy hour but appreciated her warmth.

Entering my room, I marveled at its thoughtful design—five hooks for hanging items, a standard fridge, a toaster, and a laundry basket. I loved the attention to detail that made the space feel more like a home than a hotel.

The following day, my husband arrived, and I enthusiastically gave him a tour of the hotel as if I were a realtor. While he didn’t share my excitement for the toaster, he was happy to see me so content.

I invited him to the hotel’s happy hour, having enjoyed my first experience there. This trip had also prompted a realization back in New York: if I wanted to complete my book, I would need to take charge of the process myself.

Each morning, before my son’s games, I would announce to my husband that I was going to "My Office." I would gather my laptop and make my way down to the lobby, navigating through families excitedly indulging in the breakfast buffet.

Finding a high counter, I would plug in my laptop and write for hours, a feat I rarely managed at home. The atmosphere was invigorating, though I wasn’t entirely sure what made it so—perhaps the upbeat music, the lively chatter of vacationing families, or the diligent hotel staff, including my new friend Anita, who maintained the lobby with meticulous care.

Every morning, as the breakfast buffet concluded, Anita would bring me a refreshing pitcher of ice water, saying, “You’re going to grow roots in this lobby.” We’d chat about her day, enjoying those small moments of connection.

One day, I asked Anita to watch my belongings while I tended to my laundry. As I loaded my clothes into the dryer, I noticed the BBQ area where I’d seen the man grilling on my first night. Initially worried he was using a rogue grill, I now realized there were two well-equipped outdoor kitchens flanking the pool.

During game time, my husband and I would drive to the field, brimming with excitement. I recalled my grandfather listening to Red Sox games while tending to his yard; the sound of the game had once seemed dull to me, but now, it sparked joy.

On the third day, when rain canceled my son's games, my husband and I enjoyed a leisurely day. I wrote in the lobby, while he tackled his emails. We watched March Madness from our suite and strolled to the drugstore—mundane errands that painted a picture of our future as retirees.

As our children grew increasingly independent, I contemplated what our life would look like in the coming years. What would our conversations be like without the bustle of kids and their activities? Would we delve into profound discussions about life’s mysteries, or would we find joy in the mundane?

The following morning at 5 AM, my phone buzzed violently. Our fire alarm had gone off, and my younger son and daughter were in the driveway, waiting for the fire truck to arrive. Although everyone was safe, I felt a twinge of anxiety about leaving home.

For years, our local fire crew had visited us regularly, familiar with our home and our son’s needs. Now, they were strangers to us, unaware of the changes that had taken place in our lives.

I had worried about emergencies while away, and here it was, a scenario I had feared. However, I would soon reflect on the night as one of the best emergencies we had experienced.

On our final morning in Florida, I sought out Anita to bid farewell. Just as I was about to give up, she emerged from a back room. After a heartfelt hug and tip, I expressed my gratitude, telling her it had been the nicest stay I had ever experienced.

We headed to the field for the first game of a doubleheader before making our way to the airport. I embraced my son, hoping to convey enough love to sustain us until our next reunion.

Upon returning to Northern California, I was reminded that my book was still incomplete and that my journey was mine alone to navigate. I resumed my daily routine of cooking, laundry, and tending to my children, realizing that the challenges I had temporarily left behind were now back in full force.

My high schooler’s request to host pre-prom gatherings and the whirlwind of activities reminded me that life at home was anything but static.

The next morning, my youngest woke up two hours earlier than usual, the excitement radiating from him. He bounded into our room, greeting us cheerfully.

I lifted the covers, hoping he might snuggle down beside me. Instead, he explored the bedside table, picking up a worry doll I had kept there for years. I explained its purpose, describing how telling it your worries could help ease them by morning.

As he examined the doll closely, I racked my brain for something to share. “I’m worried about how early you got up today,” I said, masking my deeper concerns about his sleep.

He held the doll up to inspect it further, declaring he had no worries of his own.

In that moment, I felt a sense of completeness. We were home, and I was together with my family again.

Chapter 2: Reflections on Parenting

In this video titled "Rust The Facility Part 2," the narrator explores the complexities of parenting and the transitions that come with it. The content delves into the challenges of adapting to new family dynamics and the emotional landscape of watching children grow.

In "Feathered Dinosaur Facility Part 2 | Jurassic World Evolution 2," the focus shifts to the educational aspects of nurturing relationships. The video emphasizes the significance of learning through shared experiences and the evolution of family connections.