There were personal issues as well. Were my kids okay? There were some behavioral shifts. Was all of this normal? Additionally, there were the existential issues I was thinking about as I began to get older. What was I doing every day to make this world a better place? Was I doing enough social service work? Certainly I could spend more of my time volunteering right here in my own city. In my limited time on this planet, was I making a difference? Any impact at all?
Lying right next to me each night was Amy, sleeping soundly, averaging a solid eight hours without a peep. Not only that, but she got up in the morning, placed her tiny feet on the ground, and set off on her day. She had things to do. Ideas to put on paper or on film. Notes to write on her hand. Lists to make. Kids to embrace. Clearly, the energy she used every minute of every day made her hit the pillow hard at night—the only time her mind was not racing, in contrast to my own.
Amy never did cease to amaze me. By the time we had our third child, the sweet angel Paris, and Amy was on maternity leave from her advertising job, a profound feeling of motherhood swept over her, and we talked about her becoming a full-time writer. Without missing a beat at her full-time, well-paid advertising gig, she’d managed to write and publish two adult books in the category of nonfiction humor or observations about life from the unique AKR perspective. This was not an easy process. Amy herself displayed with pride her many, many rejection letters.
But her talent as a writer was undeniable, and as she mulled over trying her hand at it full-time, we both knew that, like my transition, there was no “good” time to do this. Our relationship was so solid, though, that we really supported each other in every way. I knew the change would not be easy financially, but we were okay. If this is what Amy wanted to do, I was behind her 100 percent. While her first books were not flying off the shelf, Amy had a huge idea for a memoir-style book, and she was jazzed about it. So she quit her advertising career and became an author.
It was not until we were navigating our second pairing of two kids in diapers that Amy had an epiphany: she would write a children’s book. Paris was two years old. She was so verbal already, it was crazy. This was a popular question in our household at night: “Mommy, will you read me a story?” From this innocent, sweet question, Little Pea was “sprouted,” as Amy told it. She was putting Paris to bed, closing her eyes as she usually had to do for inspiration when she told the kids a story. The bedtime tale came flowing out that would ultimately be published as Little Pea, the tale of a pea who couldn’t stomach the thought of eating candy, but couldn’t wait for his favorite food—spinach.
Now, this is not the first time that Amy got the response, “Mom, that is the best story ever!” She described our kids as the best, most forgiving audience. But this was special, so she wrote it down the next day. It was six years door-to-door for Mr. Pea, but he was published with stunning illustrations in 2005.
Original sketch of Little Pea.
When Amy made the total transformation to full-time author, I was elated. She would go on to write, and have published, about thirty-five children’s books in fourteen years, including her posthumous publications—an amazing clip.
While I certainly had my own demons about my work life, I could not have been happier for Amy. I never once made a comparison. Sure, I thought “How can someone be so happy and fulfilled every day of her work life?” I just did not think a lawyer could get to that place. Nor did I think any other people I’d known in my life had ever reached that pinnacle either. I think one of the main reasons our marriage worked so well was that we genuinely wanted each other to be happy, to succeed, to make an impact, and to find inspiration. We were there for one another always. Amy was quirky, some say nontraditional, but she was Amy, and I would never have wanted to change one single thing about her, despite her desire to be taller and have thicker hair.
Seeing Amy go through this transition in her professional life made it hard for me, though, as I struggled with ambivalence about my own vocation. For years I’d been struggling to find meaning in my law career. Sure, I had many moments of stimulation, some appreciative clients, and financial success. But much of my daily work was mired in the painfully slow judicial system, the impersonal shortsightedness of insurance companies, and some very unappreciative clients.
Hoping to revitalize my attitude toward my professional life, I took on real estate investing as a simultaneous second career; and I have to say it was actually exciting and fulfilling in a lot of ways that being a lawyer wasn’t. I invested in value-added properties and some new construction, and I owned a bunch of residential buildings on the south and west sides of Chicago. I started to feel some glimmers of stimulation again, and I certainly met a lot of fascinating people and families I would never have met otherwise. One particular tenant I recall fondly used to set aside a plate just for me whenever she was making her specialties—chicken, collard greens, corn bread, and sweet potato pie. She was warm, lovely, and grateful. So were most of my tenants.
“Make the most of your time here” was one of Amy’s mottos. She reminded anyone who would listen of that motto often, including me. If I was mired down in the minutiae of my law practice, she would suggest I go into my studio and paint. When I expressed enthusiasm for dabbling in the real estate game, and she saw my passion for it, she strongly encouraged me to give it a shot. If one of my favorite bands was in town, and it was a dude show she would not be interested in, she would encourage me to go with friends. I never played golf when the kids were young, knowing how much time it would take away from our family life. However, when her dad and her brother talked up how much fun it was, she fully endorsed my foray into the sport. In everyday life she did the same, whether it was complimenting me on an outfit—“Oh, you look so cute,” admiring a toast I had given at one of our dinner parties, or, after reading one of my many cards to her, saying that I was the writer in the family, “really.” She made me a better person, through her actions and her words. And as I look back, I am pretty sure I did the same for her.
4
On Our Own
I wanted to know each part
Want to know each part of you
—Andy Hull, Manchester Orchestra
And then one day in 2015, after twenty-four years of barreling forward hand in hand through three kids, diapers, good teachers, laughing through family dinners, scraped knees, soccer practices, report cards, school pictures, bad teachers, college essays, date-night martinis, and all the rest, impossibly, we started making plans for the fact that we were about to become empty-nesters.
Justin was living in Texas, starting his adult work life while continuing to pursue his degree.
Miles was in college in Atlanta.
Paris had been in Canada for the summer, preparing for her upcoming soccer season, before starting her freshman year in college in September.
For so many years that reality had seemed like a lifetime away. When it actually arrived, when our daughter, our youngest child, was about to leave for college, it felt as if it had happened in the blink of an eye.
I know that for a lot of people, the prospect of being empty-nesters is sad, maybe even a little scary. But Amy and I were incredibly excited about it. We loved our children intensely and wanted them near us always. There wasn’t a shred of doubt about that, and they knew it. At the same time, we’d always reminded them that we came first. In today’s society, it seems that the boomerang effect of adult children returning home is more common than not. While Amy and I welcomed that possibility, we were elated at the opportunity to return to where it all started, just the two of us, navigating this whole new chapter of life. Unapologetically, and with our kids cheering us on every step of the way, we started making plans for that chapter.