Future Perfect

There are things that, if I stop to think about them too long or hard, make me want to cocoon with fuzzy socks and a Judy Blume book. Or a glass of wine and Stephen King (a book, not the man), also with fuzzy socks. Whatever the grownup equivalent is of sticking fingers in ears and singing really loud to drown out the undesirable.

One of the things that make me want to do this is the concept of mortality.

It’s simple, childish, and absurd. You see, I don’t want anyone to go anywhere, ever. Like, bear with me, my world is a hostage situation, and nobody leaves. I can stomach an eternity spent holding hands in a circle with everyone I care about. No one breaks the chain. Considering some of the personalities that comprise my fantasy crisis-of-eternity, there would likely be bickering, sarcastic banter, eventual coup attempts. But we’d stay. We’d stay and hold on and I could breathe when someone says the word death because I’d be able to look around that circle and see all those faces and all those linked hands and know that all is right with me and mine.

Almost four decades on this earth and I’ve grieved, sure. I’ve lost people-people and dog-people. I’ve lost places and hopes and pieces of myself. But overall I’ve been lucky. And I try not to look down the road too far because that’s where things get scary. You can’t see past where you’re standing right now, or shine a light down the tunnel to see what might be lurking in the shadows. You can’t call time-out and double check everyone’s seat belt. You have to just keep moving, step by step, holding on to the ones you can for as long as they’ll let you, squeezing hands of those just passing by and lock-stepping the others, the ones whose presence keeps you centered, or keeps you firmly in touch with who you are and where you came from.

I guess that’s where my comfort lies, what makes me less likely to round up all my people and ask them to form that human chain. It’s in that tunnel where all I can see is the ground beneath my feet and the people directly to my right and left. It’s sensing those behind me and feeling confident that there are others, some just out of sight, up ahead. It’s taking those steps we have to take and knowing that no matter what lies at the other end, or even how far the path goes on, my people are walking with me.

One of these days maybe I’ll be brave enough to fathom the unfathomable. Till then, please keep walking with me.

When My Job Description Changed

I used to reach for his hand when we crossed the street. Recently I did that, accidentally, and we both laughed.

I used to point out big trucks to him. And airplanes. And fire trucks and ambulances and heavy equipment of all kinds. Basically, I pointed out all larger-than-average vehicles. When I do it now, like I did yesterday, just to see what he’d say, he glances over and says without missing a beat, “Mom, that’s not a tractor.” He was right. It was a bulldozer. Semantics.

Somewhere between the day almost twelve years ago when they handed me that shockingly big-eyed bald bundle of life change and now, my job description got rewritten. 

You know that’s going to happen, though. Every new mom hears “blink and you miss it,” “they grow up fast,” “enjoy them while they’re small,” and variations thereof so often and with such earnest passion from moms who’ve been there that she knows to expect it (please believe me, that earnestness says, or you’ll wake up one day to a broken heart). But then … well, then it happens. And then she’s the one saying those things to other newbies, all the while thinking, how? How, when I knew it was coming?

And it gets me thinking. When did I stop pointing out the big trucks? 

When did he stop looking?

When did I stop reaching for his hand?

When did he go from baby to little boy to this complex, stunningly self-aware adolescent? 

When did my job description change? 

From laughing because he said something cute to laughing because he said something hilarious.

From walking alongside him to “Be careful; text me when you get there.”

From cutting the crusts off his sandwiches (until the day he told me he actually likes the crusts, that is, and I realized I’d only been doing it because I don’t like the crusts) to asking him if he’s eaten lunch.

From songs and picture books at bedtime to “Hey, why are you still up?!” 

From teaching him to learning from him.

In a few years he’ll be driving. A couple more and it’s time for college. We will have a half-empty nest and my heart will ache and I’ll wonder, again, at the quirks and illusions of time.

But there’s still today. Today he regales me with sixth-grade drama and small-scale injustices and his valiant attempts to right them, and I share with him the best TV and music of the ‘90s and 2000s as he navigates the confusing between-time with one foot in childhood and one in what comes next. Today he makes me frustrated and annoyed and hopeful and proud, proud, proud.  

Today, he doesn’t need me to hold his hand or point out the big trucks. He needs me to listen when he explains the inner workings of his latest speed cube, to marvel over his artwork and praise his patience with his little sister and his wild ability to recall minor details of all kinds. Today he needs me to be his mom, sure, but also his friend. And I’m happy, excited, blessed to be both as he makes his relentless way toward adulthood.

It’s going to happen fast. I won’t see it coming.

But I’m paying attention.