Impartial Observations of Life

One of my dad’s favorite Buddhist sayings when we were growing up (for which we gave him no end of shit) was “Be…an impartial observer…of life.” While I would never have admitted it at the time, those words and the idea of them gave me a fair amount of comfort over the years. As I have become a parent, they have been an essential tool in keeping what little sanity I have left. Back up and look at the situation from outside of whatever “self” you think you are.

So, on the eve of sending our beloved boy into the big, wide world without us, I’m going to give it a try. I’m backing up. Way up. Or maybe I’m looking closer. Hard to tell. Either way, I am attempting to be an impartial observer. Of life.

How do you detach yourself from something you feel is your entire self? Well, for starters, I will look at the part of Ross that is an elemental organism, comprised of skin and bones, of organs and blood and tissue. Of matter. Of particles and cells and molecules and atoms. Mysteriously held together by the cosmic instructions that decide such matters.

I can also impartially observe the physics (what I understand of them, anyways) of Bernoulli’s Principle, the laws that were mastered and revolutionized our capacity to transport these particles at wildly-unheard of speeds to other parts of the globe. Here, my mind might wander to consider the cause and effect that these discoveries may create in the long run- our clunky, clumsy human interferences with natural systems that move too slow slow slow for our impatient minds- ever wanting to see the fruition of every effort, to make it easier, faster, more efficient, more convenient. Like the candy bar that was sent through Wonkavision, wondering what particles we are decimating in the process, and if those were really necessary in the first place. (The chocolate still tastes the same!!)

I can impartially observe the intense magnetic attachment my heart and soul feel for these collections of DNA that traveled through my own, a part of me in the same sense that I am a part of everything else. I can muse at nature’s mandate that I consider these cells my divine responsibility to safely deliver back to the world from which they already belonged, of which they were born to begin with.

The closer and closer I look at the pointillist portrait of a million tiny bursts of color-the rainbow of boy that is created from their energy- I find it hard to distinguish where he ends and the life around him begins. The same scene mirrored from a vantage point in outer space, observing our seemingly monumental existence as the microscopic specks we really are.

When I am an impartial observer, I can comprehend that it is just my perception that makes me feel like I am sending my very life farther away than I can reach, farther away than my illusion of control can keep safe. Techinically, I am merely giving a magnetized collection of matter a ride to the airport.

And I find comfort in the notion that, while it may feel like my own cells are going to fall apart at any moment, the laws of nature (barring any unforeseen opposing forces) can be counted on to hold them together. 

Surprise

You know those smiles you feel pulling from the tips of your toes all the way to your ears? The kind that ripple in and out through the following days- regardless of what ensuing chaos has taken their place- mellowing frustrations and resurfacing thoughts of the circumstance that brought them? I have one of those smiles right now. I just had one of the most priceless experiences (and, yes, I’m gonna be patting myself on the back for a long time for thinking this one up!!)

Our life is so jam packed with life-enriching activities, intended to help the boys grow up to be learned, well-rounded adults one day, that we sometimes can’t even fit in the time to celebrate when they have arrived. Ross’s 13^th birthday was quickly approaching, and unlike the past 12 years, I did not have a clue what we would do to commemorate it. No ticker- tape parade, no theme destination, and for the first time in his existence, no big, wacky cake from mom. We talked about a few ideas, and of course, his trip to Europe is more present than any kid needs to mark the passage from childhood to early adulthood. But something was missing. The older the boys get, the fewer opportunities we will have to be a part of their festivities. Soon, they will be looking forward to spending their time with friends and love interests, and their own families, and we will hope they are inviting us. And that is as it should be. But that time is not yet here, and I intend to wring every last hurrah out of the time we have left.

As I looked at our calendar and realized (somewhat tongue and cheek) that the only time we might have for a party would be at the crack of dawn or at midnight, it soon dawned on me that it really wasn’t too far off from the truth. Then, a thought occurred to me. Remember those kidnap breakfasts people used to do back in high school and college?? Where you barged into your friends’ rooms, dragged them out of bed in their pajamas with their messy hair and their unwashed faces and shoved them into your packed car to go to Denny’s?? Well, THAT’S what we would do for our too big to be little, but too little to be big Ross and a carload or two of his friends. (Well, 9 friends to be exact, as that is exactly how many seatbelts John and I have between the two of us! High school kidnapping bandits might ignore seatbelts, but as long as we are still capable of orchestrating their safety, some rules will be followed!!)So, I quickly notified parents, who agreed not to tell their boys, gathered bandanas and sunglasses as disguises, and devised a plan of attack!

On Party Day, before the sun rose, John, Sky and I yanked the covers off of Grant and told him he was part of a big surprise.  He half-opened his groggy eyes, looked around and mumbled, “I AM??? Is it a new dog??” John said, “Nope, that’s the old dog.”

We threw on our kidnapping disguises and ran to wake up Ross. He was a good sport from the moment his eyes opened, and put on shoes with his pajama pants, having no idea what or where was next. When we arrived at the first friend’s house in the pitch dark, Ross was hesitant to leave the car and said he was scared. I assumed he meant scared to wake up his friend. He said, “No, I don’t want anybody to think I’m a gang member, since I’m wearing this red bandanna on my face.” My darling little gang member, in his pajama bottoms and messy hair, with the blinking “It’s my birthday” button. So literal, so responsible, even woken out of a dead sleep and on an adventure, led by his own two parents.

As the tentative first few kidnaps got under way and the kids started picking up the momentum and adrenaline of being in on the surprise, the novelty kicked in. The back seat of my car became increasingly full and animated. The excitement hit these boys, and they dropped their guards- laughing and joking and being themselves, assuming their roles in the group, utterly adorable in their lanky, loopy, awkwardness and Peter Brady cracking voices. Some “Mother Henning” the other boys in the group to hurry up or get their seatbelts on, others tempering their bigger , louder ideas because it was early, or because they were young enough to not be full blown in their precociousness.

I was a fly on the wall, the car driving itself in their eyes, as they noticed only each other. A rare opportunity to observe the group dynamic- to hear and see and soak them in, without them really noticing I was there. To absorb their state of being like the colors of a sunset, precious and fleeting, connecting day to night, and changing before my very eyes.

We got to the restaurant- empty, except for a few early risers- and were ushered into the adjoining room. The boys all sat at one long table, with balloons and mayhem, and we adults shuffled off to sit by ourselves in the dimly lit back of the room so they could have their semi-independent fun. We instructed them to order whatever they wanted. Cokes for breakfast? Sure! The full order of chocolate chip pancakes with whipped cream? Of course!! They had survived a kidnapping, they earned it!

We collapsed into our chairs, exhaustion quickly replacing the adrenaline, keenly aware of the differences in our age and energy level from the frenetic hum that buzzed around the big table. Perhaps it was how dimly lit our side of the room was, but our separation acted as a sort of license for them to forget we existed, and we observed as if watching a fascinating experiment behind one- way glass.  In shock, I wondered…. who WERE these people we just awoke from dead sleeps and loaded into our cars?! I thought I knew them, but they all appeared like caricatures of their former and future selves. Completely familiar and unfamiliar at the same time.  After all the secret planning and hiding and orchestrating, I realized- the surprise was actually on us!

They resembled an illuminated portrait of The Last Supper- fitting, in a strange way, as they transformed into adults and left their childhood selves behind. And I just couldn’t get over the history in each one of them. Like they each contained a reel tape of themselves that wound all the way back from the round, bouncy little kindergarteners where their introductions began, and paused at these gruff, scruffy, goofy man- children, all jokes and awkward limbs, cracking voices belying the babies within. You could almost fast-forward their tapes if you looked carefully- watched their underlying mannerisms, watched the way they interacted with each other, what they ordered, how they spoke to the waitress- who they might be when they finally shed the skin of their younger selves and hardened up from the experience and responsibility of adulthood.

As soon as it had begun, it was over. Returning the boys to their rightful owners was a more subdued affair- their bellies full, the sleepiness kicking back in. Each boy trailed off with polite good-byes, a twinkle in their smiles acknowledging the recognition of their shared experience. 

After dropping off the last kid, Ross mused about how it took longer to pick everyone up and take them home than to have breakfast-but how that was kind of the fun part.Then, my big/ little thirteen year old boy leaned his sleepy head against the seat. And in the same voice I have heard since he was able to speak, with the same ageless smile, he said, “Mommy……. I’m happy.” And at that moment, there wasn’t a single thing on this earth that could have made me happier.

Letting Him Go

In less than 24 hours, my first- born child will be turning 13. As in, the beginning of the teens. The teens that end in twenties. Which means college. And adulthood. And independence.  And I have to admit, I’m kind of freaking out about it. The Jewish culture actually celebrates 13 as the age when a boy becomes a man. I don’t know what boys were like 3,000 years ago, and Ross is one of the few 7^th graders who actually could benefit from a razor, but aside from that, thankfully there’s nothing too frighteningly adult about Ross (except his little old soul, which has been going on 60 since he was about 2 years old.)

Ross is also one of the few 7^th graders who is about to realize his life-long dream (hopefully he will pick a new one, because it would be sad to peak at just over a decade). In one week, my 13 year old boy will be getting on a plane and going to Paris, Lucerne, and Munich with a group from his middle school. And I have to let him go. I want to let him go….. I have to let him go. Ross is the youngest Francophile I have ever met. We took him to Epcot in Florida when he was five, and ever since he watched the CircleVision movie about France, it has been all-Paris, all the time. He couldn’t wait to learn French. He has eaten escargot, moules, and has even cooked Coq a Vin, all because they had a snooty whiff of France about them. He has a freaking oversized portrait of the Eiffel tower over his bed, for crying out loud. So, without question, of course I have to let him go. (OK, that’s a lie. I asked many, many questions.)

If you think about it, this isn’t even close to the first time I have had to let go, and is nowhere near the last. Sleeping through the night. Staying with Grandma. Going to school. Going to sleep-away camp. These stair steps are designed to help little birdies learn to fly on their own, and away from the nest one day, to start their own nests.

So, if this is the natural progression, I have to pause and wonder… What the HELL is wrong with NATURE??!? What kind of a sadistic system is it that makes you think it’s YOUR idea to have a child, then says, “Thanks, we’ve got it from here” and starts creating a person out of your cells while you sit there stunned, the unwitting vehicle for some bait -and switch- plan that has been around since the beginning of time? Then, this person arrives (and by the way, if the whole point is to get them to arrive, WHY does it have to be so painful?? I have questions!) and chemically, physically, mentally, emotionally forever re-arranges your personal universe so that it can never, ever (EVER) NOT have him as the center of it again!

You are dying for a break from the kids, but when you finally get one, you realize you can’t ever really take a break because you will never (EVER) entirely be able to stop thinking about them. You are dying for them to get just a little bit older, a little more independent, and then as soon as they do, you are heartbroken because your baby is growing up and doesn’t need you. You are dying for them to be old enough to stay home alone just for a little while so you can go to the grocery store in peace (because we aim high and dare to dream big, eh??) And then they’re finally old enough to stay home, so you worry about whether or not they’re ok when they’re out of your sight. And they get on big, yellow busses without seatbelts, that drive away towards scary mountain roads as they laugh and sing and celebrate their new found freedom. And you wave and know that the pain in your heart and the pit of your stomach are holding their place until they return.

I know there is more to come. Hell, we have the whole mountain to climb. These are just the foothills. They’ll be out in the big world without a chaperone, without us, and we’ll have to hold our breaths and trust they will be fine. They will learn to drive and then every single crazy driver we’ve ever come across had better beware, because our babies are in their midst. Breakable, irreplaceable. And we have to trust they will come home, safe and sound. They will grow and learn and thrive and anxiously await their place in the big world, at college, in their own apartments. With their own friends and schedules and rules and plans. And we will have to trust that the people we raised and taught and poured our time and our hearts and souls into are showing the world their own way.  To hope that life brings them people to hold in their hearts the way we hold them in ours, with all the joy and pain and learning that goes with it.

And one day, they might sit up, as I am now, thinking about the people they love more than they knew was possible, and realizing that this love is what their parents must have felt for them. As I now understand.

I have to let him go. I want to let him go. As much as he belongs to every fiber of my being, and I can’t breathe with the thought of something happening to him, I have to remember. It’s all an illusion. He was never really mine to begin with. 

Something More Romantic Than Real Life

When I was a teenager, amongst the Duran Duran posters and pictures of teenage heartthrobs that plastered my walls was a comic strip, cut out of the newspaper. It had a blasé line drawing of a medieval prince, sulking in his velvet garments and cape, wilted feather in his hat. The caption read, “Somehow, I expected something more romantic than REAL LIFE.” Oh, the angst! I felt so validated, that somebody, somewhere, understood my plight. At least one comic artist commiserated with the notion that the fairy tale we had all been promised at the theaters was not to be! My crystalline fantasy shattered at the tender young age of sixteen. In the twenty (ahem, ish) years since then, I have come to realize that real life is dictated by the real YOU. (Or, in other words, we are the ones who get in the way of all our own fun!)  

My heart has been broken so many times over things I just knew I was supposed to experience, if only my reality were different- I was SURE I was born too soon, and had just missed the era of the Beatles and Woodstock. I wanted to travel the world with only a backpack. Every time I hear the growling engine of a Harley Davidson next to me, I still have a deep- seated fantasy that I will jump out of the car and climb on the back of some grizzly bearded biker’s hog, and we will ride all the way to Sturgis in perfect, lazy sunshine. (I even have an iTunes soundtrack ready in case it ever happens.)

Here’s where reality kicks me in the ass. I’m scared of motorcycles. Petrified, really, of any risky activity that requires both feet off the ground and balance to keep you safe and in one piece. I have to take Dramamine to go on the rides at Disneyland, for crying out loud. As a general rule, I am quite appreciative of both indoor plumbing and indoor sleeping. And I am equally unappreciative of mud, dirt, bugs- let’s just say that Motel 6 is my idea of camping. And half a margarita plus 800mg of Advil is about as hardcore as my drug experience will allow, thus, I have no doubt MY trip down the rabbit hole would not be a pleasant one. So, while the romantic notion of 100,000 of your closest, most open, loving friends transcending the planes of reality- partying, playing music, doing drugs- sounds like something I shouldn’t have had to live without, let’s be real. I would never live like that. Not even for a long weekend in Upstate New York.

More truth (reality) be told, I am a terrible traveler. I don’t want to be, but I am. The anxiety of being unprepared, unfamiliar, helpless, out of my element, out of (hmm, control??) sends me into a list- making frenzy before any excursion. True confession, the first night John and I were in Paris, I was so paralyzed by not knowing where we were or how to speak the language, we ended up just eating at the McDonalds across the street from our hotel and going back to the room, and I cried myself to sleep for the shame of it! (In retrospect, this might have been a much more novel experience if we had seen Pulp Fiction and could have laughed about ordering our Royals with Cheese!)  So yeah. Backpacking across unfamiliar terrain where I can’t speak the language, with uncertain opportunities for transportation and all the indoor services I have come to appreciate I can’t (or don’t want to) live without, sounds like a much better mind trip than a road trip for me.

Realizing that my mind is a much better traveler than my body has led me on a quest to live vicariously through other people’s accounts of their experiences. You don’t wake up in jail with a terrible hangover for reading about somebody else doing drugs, and no passport, shots, or reservations are required to read about foreign lands. A much more prudent and cost- effective form of travel, indeed. (Keep telling yourself that, Lauren.)   

For about two years now, I have been sludging through a few pages at a time of Jack Kerouac’s On the Road. It’s oddly all I can handle. You’d think a book about a man free from the trappings of responsible society, who gets to follow his id on magical journeys across the country-living off the land, charming his lodging, transportation, food, booze off of the kindness of strangers- would be the auto-biography of my ideal life. (I certainly thought it would be.)Well, some hedonistic bohemian I’VE turned out to be! I find myself reading every page judging him, imparting his carefree ways with the burdensome weight of the cast of characters that toil to support the lifestyle to which he has become accustom. Is it enough that he is a voice for an era of self-expression? That his contribution to life is his words he has shared with us, words that we are still reading 70 years later? Hell no! My inner judge bangs the gavel and cries, “GUILTY!” Guilty of capitalizing on the loneliness and gasoline of farmers, toiling their way across the country. Guilty of befriending boring old sots whose parents made a fortune so that their lazy kids could keep their leeching friends in booze and shelter. Guilty of thinking about joining the group to find day labor, then deciding sleeping- in sounded better. Guilty of flirting with the girls and getting them to clean your apartment so you could have another party. Apparently, I'm capable of shoe-horning quite a bit of REAL LIFE into this romantic tale. (And, apparently, I have a lot of guilt!!)  What I thought would be the pinnacle of sublimation for this lifestyle I fancy myself yearning for, is more like a funhouse mirror. Reflecting back the parts of me I was sure looked different, in distorted, frightening ways.

What it boils down to, is that all these lofty notions share a common idea. All of the fun, all of the glory, all of the conquest, with none of the elbow grease or grit or discomfort or RESPONSIBILITY that accompanies the road to them.  And what my conscience has discovered is that your id can’t go on vacation and leave your superego at home. Or at least mine can’t, not even in writing. And in my own mind, I am a free-loving, Sherpa –following, wall-street conquering giant, who can bring home the bacon from pigs captured on the top of Mount Everest, and fry it up in a pan, gourmet-style in front of audiences across America. In reality, I am a housewife, who ponders these things in the middle of the night and then goes back to bed, content that the relative reality I will wake up to in the morning is mine. Perhaps not as glamorous, definitely not as daring and adventurous as the version in my mind, but exactly how it’s supposed to be. Figuring it out in baby steps (literally and figuratively) rather than giant leaps and bounds.

The older I get, the more I realize, I expect something a little more realistic than romance. And really, when it comes down to it, I’m OK with that.