An epic minute

 The boy stood at the curb and looked blankly into my car before turning away and squinting into the sun at the long line of vehicles idling in the pickup line.

Did he not see me? Was I invisible?

I tapped the horn briefly and waved.

His head swiveled until his face softened into that look of recognition. He could relax now. 

"You didn't look like my mom," he laughed as he opened the back door and dumped his 400-pound backpack onto the seat. He dropped himself into the front seat and smirked.

Impulse overcame every rational thought in my head as I checked the rearview mirror and eased into traffic. Who do I look like? I asked, knowing full well I was opening myself up to self-destruction through the boy's unvarnished truth.

This could be just like that moment in kindergarten when his classmate tugged on my pants leg and asked ... "Are you his grandmother?" 

I didn't cry (thanks for asking) but I did go directly from school to the hair-color aisle at the local pharmacy for a box of Color So Natural Only Her Hairdresser Knows For Sure ... and that guy in Toothpaste who heard me cussing out a five-year-old as I tossed boxes of Clairol at boxes. "Nutmeg is the darkest you should go, you'll look like Severus Snape if you go with the Midnight Black.

I will tell you, in case you were wondering, there is NOTHING that compares to a helpful old man in the toothpaste aisle. Not even a teenager whose mom's crazy, unkempt tri-colored hair hasn't seen a hairdresser since before pandemic times.

The son has learned not to take the bait.

No slouch, the boy pretended he hadn't heard me as he rummaged through the cockpit for snacks.

"What's this?" he asks playfully, snatching the day's offering from the center console and wrinkling his nose at the aroma that emerged from the stay-fresh pouch. "It has to be based on a dare."

And there just isn't any kinda way that kid is going to let the raw organic compost product pass anywhere near his super-sensitive taste buds. 

It feels strange to acknowledge, but this afternoon drive time is the best part of my day. Even when I compete with his noise-canceling earbuds to the smallest tidbits from his day, there is something deeply satisfying about the easy silence.

He doesn't harbor unhappiness yet. Right now he is content inside his own skin, even if he dresses it up with layers of snark and surliness. A smile is as contagious as a yawn with this kid. Not for trying, but he just can't help it.

I look forward to seeing his face as he walks out of school at precisely 2:19 ... four minutes after the bell. When he arrives at 2:20, not recognizing his mother, I know there will be an epic story about the harrowing journey between the last block and the locker bays. It will fill the whole ride home.

It doesn't get better than this.

Care and Packaging

I smiled to myself as I pressed an address label onto the recycled cardboard box, smoothing it with both hands. The spot where an old label had been, left a furry texture that felt oddly comforting, like the  soft underbelly of a brand new puppy.

It felt like I was handling a unicorn: The first Care Package from home.

Just the box was a thing to behold:

The box was the perfect size, the perfect shape. It was sturdy. Without dents or tears. It had structural integrity. And it had just been sitting around the house, collecting dust as I imagined all the trinkets I might fill it with.

In that area, I had been just as meticulous. I had selected things that would surprise and delight. Things that would make her laugh and roll her eyes. Things she'd asked for mixed it with things that I knew would make her smile. Even the address label bore the unmistakable brand of our silly familiarity.

I couldn't wait for her to see it.

Three strips of tape, perfectly aligned and unwrinkled, closed the top flaps so well that when I brought it up to the counter the postal clerk wouldn't think to offer an extra swath of adhesive for security's sake.

Though they would still ask if I was sending anything that was liquid-fragile-perishable-corrosive-perfumy-chemical-or-otherwise-dangerous? Did this include batteries? Live snakes? Illegally taken fish or wildlife? You aren't mailing crickets, are you?

I would answer without any humor.

I had learned that, to the postmaster, joking around about the cholesterol hazards of the boxes of candy sent out one Christmas wasn't really a laughing matter.

Neither was the text that arrived two days later:

"Ummm. So, apparently a bomb went off ... 700 feet away

We're all good, but there's another package that's suspicious. Maybe even more than one. IDK".

I was expecting a silly selfie and kudos for remembering to include her favorite snacks.

As I sat there staring in disbelief at my phone, searching in vain for breaking news, her face popped onto the screen.

She didn't want me to worry, but, moreover, she didn't want me to inundate her with a cascade of questions that she wouldn't be able to answer. I could hear the temper flair in her voice.

"All we know right now is that there was a report of an explosion on campus, and one person - possibly a staff member -- suffered minor injuries."

I started to speak, but she cut me off ...

"Don't worry, mom," she said, ignoring the oxymoron weighing down her words like an 800-pound gorilla sitting squarely on my chest. "We are going to be fine. One of my friend's dad is a firefighter here in the city. He's giving us all the information we need to stay safe."

We said our goodbyes and our I Love Yous, at the same time.

And then her father and I sat glued to our phones for the rest of the evening. Searching. Scrolling. E-mailing links to what we found to one another. And then, finally, to her.

It was a rollercoaster, with new reports of suspicious packages popping up all over campus. Our over-stretched minds couldn't fathom the idea that with heightened vigilance would come no small amount of false alarm.

We signed off and went to sleep once officials declared the situation to be under control. In the coming days, once the facts began to settle, and the whole thing felt less harrowing, I asked the only question I had kept myself from asking:

"I don't suppose you got the package I sent?"

Carrying the load

 You know that moment ... when your eldest kid goes off to college and you're all sad, and melancholy ... You've spent weeks planning how the move-in would go? And it happens ... as planned, with nary a hiccup?

Not that moment.

Your little family of four drives off in a car filled with the contents of her dorm room - a metric ton of essentials hefted up four-floors by none other than your youngest child -- and returns, just the three of you, to a house that seems almost too empty.

Not that moment, either.

Fast forward a day or three when said youngest heads back to school with ...

One pencil.

Not even sharpened.

That's the moment.

The one in which you think all of your focus has just turned and landed with a thud.

The sibling that time forgot is suddenly front and center.

The boy is blase. He waited until the last possible moment -- when classes had already started, and he realized the pencil he carried behind his ear might not suffice -- to deal with the matter of school supplies. 

Of course you knew his school also required supplies. You might have intervened had the task of picking out bedding, laundry baskets and contraband twinkle lights with your daughter not been so alluring.

Oh how you enjoyed those errands.

"I guess I need a few things," he says.

You will enjoy this errand, too.

You grab the keys and your wallet. 

It will be late by the time we arrive. The store would be closing in a few minutes. We move through the aisles quickly, gathering things from a list and head to the front of the store. The weight of the handbasket lessened as I removed one thing after another and stacked them on the counter. An orange binder; a package of paper; some notebooks in different shades of blue; pens; another binder, this one white. 

The "counter" was just a square landing pad, really, and with nowhere to separate the scanned from the unscanned, the cashier struggled to process the pile of school supplies I had stacked there in a lopsided mound.

The clerk announces the total, to my absolute shock.

How could it be so low?

"I'm not sure you scanned this compass," I offered, listing off an inventory by category. The man squints as he examines his register's display.

"No. I have the compass, but I must have scanned one binder twice. Sorry, I'll remove it.."

The total was even lower now.

I turn to look at my son. His face reveals nothing. If he is concerned with the exchange, he doesn't let on. Things should add up. Fair is fair.

I extract a card from my wallet and push it into the slot, my mind spinning until it lands on the three bunches of cherries: I have one high-schooler instead of two.

Jackpot.

Will he see it that way? No more split attention at home?

All eyes on him?

The cashier's too?

"Do you need a bag?"

My son and I look at one another. He lifts his shoulders as the corners of his mouth theatrically turn downward.

"Naw, I can carry it all."

The remainders

There are so many calculations yet to make.

How many pairs of shoes should she bring? How many shirts? Pants? Jackets? Does she even have boots? How do three people share two closets?

How do three roommates, plus their respective entourages, go into one forced triple dorm room evenly? It seems there will always be a remainder. Hopefully, there's just a few cardboard boxes leftover. We will cut on their seams, fold flat and recycle them. We won't give them a second thought. Things, unlike actions, don't linger on a single thread of resentment, weaving its way into a winter-weight grudge.

The questions I am thinking should go without saying. But I won't be able to stay silent.

If you are the first one to arrive, should you take the best bed? Or should you wait until everyone is there and let two out of three games of Rock, Paper, Scissors decide?

Do you even know which sleeping area will be the most coveted?

Such is the complicated math of transitioning to an all-new living situation.

I try to simplify for sanity's sake.

Subtract three from our slotted arrival time to come up with the hour we should depart. This isn't an exact calculation, as we are allowed a window of time in which we can encounter stand-still traffic or stopping for rest rooms or snacks.

In this way, move-in day is more of an art than a science.

No matter, we keep running the numbers: Adding the square footage of the trunk space (with seats stowed) only to divide by the number of bags she has packed full to bursting.

"Should we attach the travel shell to the roof rack?"

I can't hide my annoyance. I don't even try.

"No. We should not attach the travel shell to the roof rack," I reply ... my voice threatening to cut the guy with its sharpened edges. "If it doesn't fit inside the car it's not likely going to fit inside the dorm room once we get it there."

How many times have we had this conversation?

Probably about the same number of times I've made an unsolicited suggestion and found myself backing away, both hands in the air, from the skirmish it escalated.

Does she need three pillows, two blankets AND a comforter? Probably not. Might it be embarrassing if the contents of her pack overfills the single yellow bulk hamper truck she will be allotted? It might sting for a minute. Will we have to schlep some of the extraneous items back home? Decidedly so.

The correct answer is ALWAYS yes!

Yes, she needs three pillows. Two blankets. And a comforter. Yes she will fit it all in.
Yes we will store any excess into her room, which will remain hers for all  eternity.

I have to remind myself I'm not the only one whose tensions are high.

I also have to stop myself from making some tired old joke about reclaiming her room; turning it into a space for craft-making or at-home physical fitness. It never gets a laugh. Even with my stunning lack of hobbies, the idea of such an erasure seems, on reflection, deeply unkind.

She hasn't really moved; she's just staying elsewhere for now.

There's even department stores where she's going ... you know ...  if she really can't live without a third blanket to match her pillow-count.