So Long My Graduate

I woke up yesterday grumpy.  That's right. Grumpy.  It was graduation day for my son.   Almost 18 years of mothering and in some ways, according to custom, it was all supposed to culminate in this.  The ceremony, the cap and gown, the beaming face.  Lets set aside the fact that it has been the rainiest month I can remember since my twins were born 9 years ago.  Rain gets to you after a while.  You want to see sunshine on a graduation day. But here was the sort of astonishing thing.  As I sat at the ceremony-- my butt planted on the cold , hard concrete of the outdoor football bleachers, the thoughts that ran through my head weren't ones of motherly pride and contentment.  Instead, all of the lingering dialogue that rang inside my head called everything that I had ever done as a mother into question.  Had I been a good enough mother? I began to silently panic, as I regretted my previous smugness at a job well done.  I realized it was too late. As I listened to the well-crafted speech from the valedictorian, the perky delivery from the saludatorian, the essay contest winner, I thought to myself.  Did I make my son work hard enough? Should we have had those "word of the day" calendars by the toilet?    What about his SAT words, was his vocabulary good enough? As I relaxed into the beautiful piano medley from my friend's son and the solo vocal accompaniment, I felt fingers of failure creep up my back.  Should I have MADE them take piano lessons longer, insisted that he stay in the church choir?  What about acting, he never really got exposed to that.  And art, I knew he didn't exhibit much talent in that area,  but maybe I hadn't done enough puzzles with him as a child? As I stared at the roster of childrens' names who were graduating,  many had awards and scholarships next to their name.  Had I not known my son could apply for these?    In all the overhwleming mail and emails from the high school,  had I missed something?  Could he have won some special award, a commendation that would set him up for a life-time of success? What I realized, as I laughed at myself later, was that this wasn't about my son.  For eighteen years, my son had gradually nudged me toward mothering him.  He had self-selected the things he liked to do, his strengths and weaknesses, his interests and non-interests.  It was me who was at sea here;  me who was watching her little boy as he sat, figeting in the funny black gown and absurd mortarboard, it was me who didnt want to let him go. I was the one trying to make peace that after this simple ceremony, with all these wonderful and accomplished friends of his, I would be letting a little piece of him slip away.  This was one more shred of evidence that my son had defined himself, set out his perameters, defined his profile in the world as he took one large step away from the nest. The rain held off until the ceremony was just about over.  The kids threw their hats in the air.  There was hugging and photos and smiles and a sprinkle of tears here and there.  And I as I walked across the turf field toward the high school for some punch and cookies, a little of the grumpiness broke loose and washed away.  It was me, I realized, who didn't want to give him up, who wasn't quite done mothering him, who still wanted to polish an edge, find a new skill, hear another story, to gain more insight into that often quiet son. But now I would have to be ready.  He was ready.  And no matter how far he roamed, I'd always be his mom -- perfect or imperfect as my mothering was.

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Rainy Days and Teens

So here I am.  I'm at our lake house and its soggy.  I've said yes to my  kid that as part of his graduation present he can bring friends up here. Girls and boys.  Somehow we set a limit and somehow, in the effort not to hurt certain people's feelings, he exceeded that limit without checking with me. As the rain pours down and the TV blares with the cheesy R rated movie they've rented, the septic system groans with overuse and I try desperately not  to pick up each tortilla chip as it drops on the carpet-- trying to pretend I'm rolling with this, I will the time to speed ahead.  They are all going out for pizza in the nearest town soon.  I can't wait.  I have kept my mouth silent as they used the new fluffy expensive bath towels for beach towels in the absence of me being there to direct them.  The damage is done-- they are already in the dirty sand-- what good will looking like a harpie do now?   And as I sit now, with time to relfect, to write a little and catch up on the emails I seem never to be able to wrestle on top of, I reflect that its awfully quiet.  I like this. Yes, no Mom craves to be in a house on a rainy night with a half-classroom of teenagers.  They certianly don't want me here either.  But now, all this quiet-- quiet enough to hear the rain on the roof --this is what it will feel like sometimes when he is gone.  Next year when my son heads off to college, althoug there are still three girls at home, I will feel the absence.  It will be its own kind of silence. Why is there no middle ground?  This age seems like its all or nothing.  All of them coming at you full-throttle or gone.... out for the night as you hope to catch snatches of meaningful conversation at a dinner table somewhere. Eighteen years of raising him and yes, it seems to have gone fast, but it also feels like 18 years.  I can remember all the iterations like a photo collage in my mind;s eye.  I went to wake him the other morning and I just began sobbing--- i just saw it all telescoped together like a deck of cards being shuffled  by a dealer. My son was instantly awake, alert, worried at my sobbing.  I should have been using this tactic for years now to get him up. "Nothing is wrong," I sniffed.  'I'm just thinking I only have about six weeks left to do this," I said, ruffling his hair. "I'll always come home," he said to me in a kind, little boy voice.  "And I love you," he added, looking right in my eyes and holding my gaze. I'll carry that moment with my son in my heart for a long time; through four years of college and as he moves on to take his first job, find a girl, settle down and have kids of his own.  I don't get the chance to look inside my son's heart as often as I like.  But I saw it that morning, shining bright and clean and constant-- love -- the best gift I could have given him. Even if I can't wait for him and his friends to leave the house on a rainy day.

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Being in the Moment

I've spent a lot of time on the road in the last two months talking about the new book and giving people homework at the end of a reading. The homework is this-- BE IN THE MOMENT. This, I know, sounds like a Hallmark card. This is what we should be doing, right? But in real time, real life, it isn't always possible. I was at the gym this morning and ran into a friend in my town who was reading "Perfectly Imperfect." She said that the chapter on "Mothers and Sons" had made her cry. She has three sons, each of whom is on his way to being a man and she told me that to watch them now, as they move about their lives with their deeper voices and big hands and feet, she often juxtaposes in her head her images of them as little toddlers, needy and clingy, loving and physically demonstrative. I think there is some valve in all of us that fails and pops open when we become parents--- all emtional equilibrium falls apart. We spring a leak. All of a sudden those cheesy AT&T or Mastercard commercials make us weep. We cry at the drop of a hat. We cry just thinking about things that might make us cry. My friend told me that right now she can't watch the videos of her children from the past. They make her sad. Some of this is because she realized how absolutely consumed with the business of life she was during some of those fulcrum moments. She described one video where she is tying the pinanta to a tree for her son's birthday party and in the background he is repeating over and over that he has something to tell her. It pains her to see herself-- continuing on with the pinata tying, focussed on the party, not stopping her action to listen. It makes her feel like she was a less than perfect mother. And of course we all are. That's simply the point of life. And so my homework to you is this-- just twice this week-- BE IN THE MOMENT. Sometimes for me thats the first cup of coffee with a great froth of milk on top as I warm my hans around the mug before any one is awake. It's the smell of my twins hair on the morning when I wake them for school. Its the moment on the couch when i hold my husbands hand-- before we go upstairs and kick some butt for the bedtime routine. This kind of focus isn't possible every single day. But if we can learn to practice it-- the way people practice yoga or train for marathons or spend time on the internet-- if we can devote just a little slice of our week to this-- then I believe we will look back with less regret. And our hearts will swell. Thats the feeling of joy. And joy is a precious commodity in this life.

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