SWEET CHILD OF MINE

It was somewhere in the midnight hours between the last night of my father’s dwindling life and the day he died. I was sitting outside on a bench at the Towne Centre, listening to live music trailing through the doors of a building that had been an integral part of our childhood celebrations- birthdays, soccer parties, a haven for safe, teenage fun.

Hours earlier, we had determined that my dad’s body was giving us the signs. He was ready to go. We switched him from Palliative Care to Hospice, identical in care except for the remote hopefulness that the former held onto. Hospice was a word we had waited with uncertainty to hear. What would it mean? What would it be like? How long would it last? The word came with the understanding that no further sustenance would be offered to keep my dad’s body alive, only  the humane grace that medicine could provide. So, now it became a waiting game, with no clear winner.

We made a collective decision that the next day would be a celebration of all the things my dad loved. But that night, that last night of my father’s life, I had a strong compulsion to fly. I had to be young. I had to be free. To dance and stay up too late and thumb my nose at the stuffy sorrow of it all.  

The restaurant of our childhood had become a concert lounge, still a haven to the same generation of crazy 80’s teenagers, only a few decades older. The music raging from the stage was a playlist of favorites from our era. As we listened to songs that marked our youthful existence, waves of euphoric, unapologetic defiance crashed into waves of suffocating grief.

I wandered outside to escape the sensory overload and found myself in front of an old familiar fountain, my friends next to me. In the confusion of sorrow and tears, someone (I don’t even remember who, it could have been me) suggested we throw pennies into the fountain and make a wish. We dug out three pennies and I heard two splashes. My eyes were closed, fingers clutching the penny, waiting for my wish to materialize. It was at that moment, as I realized I had no idea what to wish for, that the song started. A song I had heard a million times since I was a teenager, possibly in that very spot, but had never really HEARD before.

Sweet Child of Mine.

What is the statistical probability that a song could be written decades prior, somehow played as if on cue, and then have such significant lyrics that never made sense until that moment? I couldn’t begin to tell you, but as they belted out the most existential question known to man, I knew my dad was with me. He was scared. He was genuinely asking me.

Where do we go? Where do we go now?

They sang and I sobbed. I kissed the penny, told my dad I loved him, and threw it in the fountain. Splash.

That one moment in time would have been enough. But my Jazzy MD of a dad was never one for understatement. In the months, and now years to come, I would hear the live version of this song, played from the beginning as I walked past the doorway of a bar on a busy street.  Sung by a cover band when I took my mom away for a Mother’s Day weekend and had been soaking in the significance of our time together. On the radio at precisely the same moment, in precisely the same spot of Victoria Avenue where I had heard it before. And so many other times, when I truly needed it, that I have lost count.

My dad died that Sunday, June 26^th, after a night of escaping the confines of his convalescence with his daughter, and a full day of being celebrated and surrounded by his entire family. Where do we go now? I wouldn’t profess to know the answer. Heck, I’m not even sure of where we ARE anymore! But any fears or doubts I might have had before that night have been put to rest. It doesn’t matter. And my guess is, it is closer than we think. My dad may not be here in the form that we knew him before, but he repeatedly proves to me in showy, over the top ways that he most certainly is still here. 

 

 

Mid Night

Ripest summer peaches in an assembly line on the chopping block. My knife slicing to the rhythm of a soothing, silent beat. The surrounding quiet is friendly, familiar, just listening. Its lack of input allows my cells and senses to realign themselves. Absorbs the waves of discord that exit my brain.

This middle of the night is mine.

It is free from the careening rush of requests that lurch and lunge at me during every waking hour.. To the casual observer, these interactions might seem quite pedestrian. Quite unimportant. An obvious component of being a parent, of being a functioning person. But they don’t see what’s going on behind my eyes. That my mind is climbing, climbing, chugging along- and each interruption lobs itself at my train of thought, derailing it from its track.

The dog, the doorbell, the lists and lists of silly little things. MOM, can I have a Coke? MOM, when can we go to New York again? MOM, after we finish this can we go to the mall, movies, park, bowling alley, batting cages? MOM, can you buy me new shoes, new bat, new game, new toys, new everything? MOM, will you play ping pong with me? Sit with me? Play with me? Me me me?? Why can’t they understand that each insistent, innocent question is an assault on the precarious order in my mind?

I can already hear your clucking warning. Yes, it will be over all too quickly and I will long for these days. It already is. I already do. But as their days are racing along, they are taking my days with them. And soon, I will blink and look up and wave goodbye-to them and to my youth- and I will wonder, what the hell was it I was trying to get done, again??

In the middle of the night, I am anything I want to be. I am nobody, to no one.

I have time to think. My mind is on the verge of all the answers. I don’t know them, but I know they are there. I also know it doesn’t matter if I figure them out, because the answers exist independent of my understanding. Of anybody’s. Sometimes it’s kind of lonely. I have to be all by myself to be myself. But it’s also healing. It’s right. It taps into the part of me, the part of all of us, that is already everything and nothing at all.

In the middle of the night, I am in charge.

My knife and my thoughts have stamina. They are supreme athletes, conditioned and poised for the long race. They will work tirelessly and efficiently towards the triumph of the finish line, the finished product. Nothing is too difficult, too complicated, too much effort. Nothing is too unimportant, too unnecessary, too frivolous, too expendable.

In the middle of the night, I don’t come in last place.

As my hand reaches for the last peach in line, I feel a wistful sense of accomplishment. The task comes to a close and takes my sense of purpose with it. Grudgingly, my eyes and my mind know that it is time. That, in a blink, the dawn will bring with it a new list of mundane demands for me to get behind.

HERE AND HEREAFTER

I have nothing to attribute the stories to (in which to attribute? Nope. Too formal.) that I am about to share. No hidden agenda, no expectation that the experiences have any significance past the witness I bear. For me, they are not solid evidence of some particular doctrine. I can’t tell you why, and frankly, in my mind- if it’s all the same to you- you can’t tell me why, either. Because, in all fairness, my guess would be every bit as good as yours, and vice versa. You may feel free to call your convictions “beliefs” or “faith” and I will understand. But for me, I find comfort in the notion that these occurrences happen, in whatever relative consciousness or perception I assume I possess, simply because they just “do.” 

And maybe my mind has the ability to weave these meanings together from the threads of memory, from leftover pieces of information, affection, energy- all earmarked in the person’s name. To create significance out of what others choose to call coincidence. Who knows? (Your guess or mine?)

So, enough preface. I will get to it: Whenever someone dies that I am close to, I feel like the conversation with them continues. Like a vague, nagging thought about them turns into a phrase, or an observation of exactly what they want me to know. In particular, this seems to apply to close relatives, although it has happened with friends who have died unexpectedly, or parents of close friends.

The night my Grandpa died (although I was unaware that he had died), I was sitting next to John in a giant arena after the theatre performance that had brought us together. We were holding hands, high with the excitement of new love. This was not something I could have verbalized at the time, (more of a looking back and understanding what it is that I understood) but at one point, I sensed my grandpa there with us, even said (somewhere in my mind to somewhere in his mind) “Here he is, Grandpa. This is the one.” Like I somehow introduced them. Got his approval. My mom waited until the next day to give me the news because she didn’t want to ruin all our hard work by making me sad. That was when it made sense. When I “knew” he really had been there, after all.  Visiting us in California, like he never had been able to when he was alive.

Things were slightly different when my Grandma died, because a good deal of our energy was focused on helping my Papa through the agony of losing his lifelong companion. I learned a lot about the social and communal aspects of death. How to help. What to say. What to do. How to lose someone, but also how to console the living.

After the funeral, I accompanied my aunt to the grocery store to get more supplies for the house full of guests and mourners. As we loaded items onto the belt, the ring my Grandma had given me on my 13^th birthday- that had been her mother’s, that I had worn ever since- got caught (I’m not even sure on what) and snapped at the base. I burst into tears, relieved that the pinch of the metal gave me an excuse. My heart was broken that such a special heirloom had to choose THIS particular moment to break. My aunt just looked at me and smiled. “ You know, that’s actually very special. They say that when someone dies, if something that they gave you breaks, it means that they are here with you.”

My Nana died during a bitter frozen winter in Upstate New York. She had been single and alone in her apartment for 26 years. The whole family was there for her funeral, but from the minute I crossed the threshold into her apartment, I knew in no uncertain terms exactly what she wanted. We had only one week to orchestrate the disassembly of her belongings- into boxes, to friends, to donation, to the post office- and that was exactly what we were to do.In frozen 2 degree weather, we huddled together at her graveside stunned silent by the new education of how cold could permeate layers of jacket like they weren’t even there. As the Rabbi began speaking, a chilling wind whipped up, and I felt my Nana pass through us. Lamenting things undone, unsaid. She couldn’t rest with dignity until her affairs were all settled.

As we combed through dishes, drawers, personal belongings, my brother found an old bag of cassette tapes. And (coincidentally??) he also found an old tape player. In my haste to complete the daunting task, I probably would have thrown them away. But as we took clothes off of hangers, pictures off of walls, my brother pushed play. And we listened to my Nana’s voice, young and clear, audio journaling her solo drive across the country-from New York to Riverside- to visit our family. She described each day’s drive, the people she met along the way, the landmarks she had always wanted to see. And the excitement (and exhaustion) grew as she neared her destination. Her voice a notch higher in Arizona, then filled with anticipation as she crossed the threshold into California. And as an unfathomable finale, she shouted into the tape recorder with excitement as she spotted our house. The car door opened, and the screams of our childhood selves shattered the room. Celebrating her arrival. “You’re HERE!! YOU’RE HERE!!!” She was there and we were here and it was then and now all at once.

My Papa couldn’t understand what was taking him so long to die. Once Grandma was gone, he engraved his own headstone next to hers and visited it regularly. The only nagging detail keeping them apart was the blank spot after the dash that would one day separate his birth from his death. It took ten years of Papa impatiently waiting to be with Grandma again. When he died, I felt sad for the obvious reasons, but also because it was the first time I just didn’t feel a thing. No energy at all. No trace. Gone. We packed up his belongings- he wasn’t there. Went to the temple services- still nothing. Like he finally got his dying wish, and never looked back.

But then we got to the graveside. In a Jewish funeral, they lower the coffin into the ground, and every person takes a turn returning the loved one to the earth- scooping a shovel of dirt into the grave, but holding the shovel upside down as a symbol of regret for the action. My Papa had thrown himself, wailing, onto my Grandma’s coffin when it was her turn to be lowered, and I expected to feel similarly solemn about the experience the second time around. To my surprise, it was quite the opposite. As soon his coffin hit its long awaited resting spot, I felt a burst of happiness that spun high into the air. My grandparents together again, twirling in a spirited dance of joy! I had to suppress a giggle, and assumed it was the inappropriate reaction that nervousness sometimes brings. But my brother Geoff caught my eye, and he asked me (out loud, in actual verbal language) if I had felt that. We laughed together, in knowing celebration.

It took me my entire life- and especially the three years of illness leading up to the end of my dad’s life- to become strong enough to handle losing him. The night my father died, I was sitting at his side, holding his hand.  Our whole family surrounded him, and our breathing was his breathing. We were one in the way that ancient texts describe everyone being connected. And my dad was carried along through our current of love.  I don’t know how and I don’t know why, and I don’t know if it really happened or if I imagined it, but I felt him travel through me on his way out. And it was every emotion you could imagine, all at once. Of course sadness, and a touch of fear, but also support and encouragement, and exhilaration, and a surprising component of outright joyousness. Of freedom and light and movement and color and sound and transformation. From where to where? I don’t know.

In his final breath, his final descent, I felt the cool tingle of his energy as it left through my fingers. And we all knew he was gone.

Gone isn’t the right word, though. Not here? Not him? Not in his body?

It took a little time to settle into whatever form of consciousness (for lack of a better term) he took on, or perhaps returned to, in death.  Like those crazy Magic Eye posters we all used to stare at- not sure what we were trying to look for, how it would appear- I had to blur my realistic focus and recognize that what I was seeing had to be perceived in a different way than I was used to.

The colors, same as the ones I had seen when he died, were the easiest for me to comprehend. I know what I have seen before, and I know what I haven’t. These colors seemed to be more than one thing at a time, and never stopped changing. They were not the static forms of energy we are accustom to calling a table, or a vase of flowers. Closer to the notion of a sunset.

I “heard” him telling me things. Insistent things. Omniscient things. Not in words, exactly. More like I had thought the words, but they weren’t mine. Like there is a big story and a lot of answers and he wanted to share them with me, but we suddenly had a language gap. Or perhaps there isn’t language to explain what we have tried, in every configuration, to manifest.

The most surprising sensation I experienced was physical, and lasted for days, if not weeks, after his death. My upper body felt the queasy, non-specific uneasiness you feel when your finger accidentally gets in-between the plug and the socket and you get zapped. I attributed it to the unfamiliar level of grief, or to being tense, (or perhaps the absence of being tense) until one day, the sensation was so pervasive that I actually mentioned it out loud to someone. “It is odd. I don’t feel it in my head or neck, or lower arms, just right around my upper arms and back. Almost like I could draw a line around me… almost like a………hug.”

There are too many stories to fit them all here. Songs, influences, reparations, phrases that I hear until I have to say, “OK, OK, already!” and repeat the message out loud, so he knows I heard. And over time, the sharpness, the rawness of our connection has mellowed. Sort of like a song you have heard so many times, you feel like you almost can’t hear it anymore.  

I can tell you that from my experience, what is “here” and what is “there” has become a whole lot more interesting. I try to listen the best I can. I want to get the whole story. But, similar to the bits that are lost in translation when a book written in one language is told in another, there are pieces missing. Subtle nuances that change the entire meaning. Ones that can’t quite be replaced.

It has been nearly two years since my dad died, and on what would have been his 69^th birthday, I find myself thinking about him. Reminiscing. It still feels like an odd dream, like I haven’t talked to him in a while and owe him a phone call. Like he’s perfectly content sitting in a comfortable chair overlooking the view, pouring over his medical and law journals, or blissed-out , following his fingers on the piano. He’s busy somewhere living his life and we are busy living ours. Which is largely true, for the most part. Only his forwarding address is to parts unknown. At least for now, I suppose.

How strange it is, typing into the night and then sending my thoughts into the stratosphere. It’s a one-way ticket. I never know where they land. I wonder if you’re skeptical. Searching for tangible explanations, excuses. Or you might have a perfectly good answer for why these things happen. Or maybe you really couldn’t care less either way. But if you have read this far, then perhaps you ponder the bigger meaning, the deeper connection. If so, then maybe sharing my experience will at least give you some form of peace, fill in a few pieces of the puzzle you are trying to solve. (Or you may just get a good chuckle at the latest confirmation that I am a whack job!!) At the very least, I hope you will find some comfort in the thought that there is comfort to be found. Why? How? I will leave those questions and their answers up to you. 

FIRE AND RAIN

Just yesterday morning they let me know you were gone…..

The circles are spiraling again.

A few days ago, I drifted past posts of various sorts, chuckling here, commenting there, when I came across a picture of two sisters, whose lives intersected with ours a few times throughout our childhoods.  My eye stopped, as I considered the history, the significance of seeing these two friends as adults. They had been through challenging times, as so many of us had, and it was gratifying to know that somewhere, out in real life, they still existed, even if my only contact was in this glowing box in front of me.  

My mind wandered to a specific memory of Lisa, a few years older than Wendy and myself, who I became closer friends with through our involvement in theater. One year, when Lisa was a senior, we were in a play together, and we both happened to have extremely dramatic roles that talked about dying, involving many tears. I specifically recalled Lisa’s performance- a scene recalling the death of her sibling as he sat with his girlfriend, carbon monoxide filling the car and killing them both. The end of the scene shattered her numbness, left her sobbing and screaming in a fit that broke your heart. I made sure I was in the audience watching every single time she gave that performance. And for some reason, that was what I was thinking of the other night, when I saw this picture of these girls.

An introductory piece of music was chosen to set the tone for each monologue or scene. Before Lisa’s scene, the obvious choice for a lead-in was Fire and Rain, by James Taylor. My mind trailed through that song when I saw their picture, as well.

So many years ago, Lisa sat preparing herself for exactly this situation. This loss. And perhaps the tears that wracked her body then, were tears she was unknowingly crying for now.

But I always thought that I’d see you again……

Nearly 30 years later, I still can’t hear that song without thinking of Lisa. And now, whenever I hear it, I will forever also think of Wendy.

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.