I can see my future. Lucky me, you say...quite a skill. For a few weeks each summer, I can to peer into my future; one rapidly approaching with the passing of every school year, soccer season, and school photo. I get angry, sometimes, at time...spinning out of control, going so fast I feel like I'm missing whole chunks of weeks. Desperately slipping photographs into a box in my closet to hang on to every gap-toothed smile.
For these weeks, I drink hot tea in the evening in the silence; no TV, no radio, only the occasional hum of passing cars or a neighbor's thumping radio. I wash my face extra carefully, cook myself vegetables and rice, and indulge in hot baths with Radiohead playing quietly. I can see myself withering away like this once their lives have left my home. I find it extraordinarily difficult to picture life without them.
Today my car door opened and my son blustered in. It felt like the air inside the car had been a vacuum and it was popped open to full richness again. He chattered, intelligently, asking me pointed and thoughtful questions about war, about God, about girls, all in a thirty minute car ride. He made a joke that initially caught me off guard with its mature humor, and then made me laugh until tears came. He said quietly during a brief lull, while looking out the window at passing fields, "I love you, Mom."
He told me about a girl he met in school, just before the end of the year, with "blonde hair and eyes like Callie's and a pretty smile"..a girl named Skye. I asked why he never told me about her before. He shrugged. "I dunno. Didn't want to. Now I do." I asked if he had talked to her. No. Why? "I'm nervous."
We spoke with no radio, quietly, almost reverently, as my son opened up to me more than he has in months, perhaps since his last outburst about his father. He told me he was reading the newspaper on his iPad and his iPhone while he was at his grandmother's house and he was worried. Why all the war? Why all the fighting? How many people are going to die? He seemed somehow accepting when I said, "I don't know. I just don't know."
I watched him as he sauntered in the doctor's office, leaning on the counter and chatting with the receptionist in that easy way that some people have. That I don't have. That is every single bit his father. The receptionist was laughing and I could see how easy it was going to be for him to flirt with pretty girls once he got older and found his nerve. The young doctor, also a handsome brunette with an easy smile, joked and laughed with him before diagnosing him as being too awesome and telling him he was going to need to come back in six months to keep that under control. Didn't want the ladies knocking down his door, doctor said, throwing a wink my way.
We sang Ace of Bass on the way home...he knows all of the words to some of the songs now, and he laughed and was visibly relieved to be declared well again. He asked what movies were out now and then said we should go on a "date" to see a movie, so I said we'd do it. He sat back and grinned, his left-hand fingers absently tapping my wrist on the center console. The boy oozes charisma and charm around others, has become teacher's pet every year and is known by name by every secretary, janitor, and nurse at his school...but to me, he opens his inner doors and shares his quiet pain, worries, fears. I have waited for many years to see if he would trust and respect me enough, especially after losing his father, to allow me to be his friend and confidante. Today he made it clear he does.
This sounds like nothing to some, but this was a beautiful day to me. The small victories in parenting end up winning the war. Earning a child's trust and respect unlocks a healthy future for both of us: he knows he can come to me with anything and I will listen and care for him, and I know he is growing to be a smart, inquisitive, empathetic soul who will touch the world in beautiful ways.
He went back to his grandmother's tonight...I have an all-day conference tomorrow so she's staying home with him. I came home to my empty house, but it didn't feel so empty anymore. It's a home, a nurturing nest, a landing pad, a place of inspiration and hope, comfort and love, and for now, a quiet retreat for me to gather my thoughts and prepare myself for many more insightful conversations with the incredible people I am allowed to call my children.
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