Boyish

“Hi, Mrs. Connally … ”

A newly tall, tow-headed boy  … one of my son’s best friends … had caught sight of me on the track apron. 

He noticed I had been failing in all attempts to summon my son from a jogging distance at the edge of a lane. I had wanted him to come and collect a cartoon-sized vacuum flask that I had just purchased and filled with ice water to solve the recurring problem of him collapsing into an overheated puddle in the passenger seat of my car at track meet’s end all because he lacked the forethought of hydration. He wanted me to disappear Into the ether without further ado. 

It seems I misread his bemusement of the drum-sized cooler as “approval” when last we were browsing at the local department store. 

Still, dehydration during sports seemed a challenge worse than embarrassment so I persisted.

My son was strategically avoiding me and also sending glares like daggers my way. 

Towhead was waving his arms as if churning the air into gale-force winds. He saw this golden opportunity and didn’t want to squander it.

“I will bring it to him, Mrs. Connally,” he said rather angelically as he loped over and took the jug from me, Running back to circle my son and pretend to play the game of keep away for a moment before making the transfer. 

Now, I know what you may be thinking (if you are old like me) … “This kid must be a real Eddie Haskell.”

He may be smooth, but I don’t think this kid has an insincere bone in his body. 

This is just who Towhead is; a helpful guy who enjoys a good-natured ribbing regardless of which side of the target he’s facing. No hard edges. No sarcasm. It seems like an aspect of adolescent joy that is weirdly non-toxic, possibly the result of truly embracing that which is slightly awkward as something that is decidedly cool. 

Certainly a rare talent. 

When it’s over my son will not only be well hydrated he will be smiling and forgiving my egregious motherly trespasses. 

I am grateful this boy of mine has been lucky enough to attract so many lovable weirdos. Friends who have your back just by accepting who you are at face value: oddities and all.

It’s comforting to know my son has adopted those ways, as well. And that boyish silliness is still a big part of the appeal.  

“Oh don’t mind the kid skiing in the cow costume. He’s cool. The real weirdos are skiing in jeans,” I overhear him say during a break in gameplay. “How far apart do you think shoulder blades should be?”

A part of me hopes he will never change. 

I dip my head into his room to ask if he needs anything. I was going to the store. 

“Oh, mom! I forgot to tell you: Towhead decided to open a pizza shop this week during break. I ordered a large pepperoni and a small margarita for tomorrow night. So dinner is on me.”

Cat's Cradle

 It has been so long since I’ve heard her voice ... my newly adult child, the baby I used to call Ittybit.

This is not a complaint.

Just an observation.

Like the type of handwriting known for its flowery script that some would tell you has gone the way of the dinosaurs, it seems the random phone call home. I also know that ninety percent of the time I will EVER spend with her has already occurred.

Truly, I am not complaining. I have understood the hard realities of parenting even before my daughter was born. I knew that time would fly.

It is one of many reasons that I took copious amounts of pictures. I did not, however, make many videos. Which sometimes worries me as months go by without hearing the cascading sentences of her excitement; or the exasperated signs that spell out irritation.

Not that it matters. Somehow, I recognize the underlying sentiments she communicates with the straightforward words she randomly texts at odd hours.

I may not have known that Short Message Service would displace the telephone, but I am entirely comfortable with texting as a primary method of communication. I have even been overjoyed with silly messages she sends through mobile applications that I can not seem to initiate on my own.

And there’s nothing that sets my aging heart aflutter than a mid-winter request for an in-person appearance. She didn't NEED me, but she WANTED me.

It’s as close to feeling like royalty as I will ever reach.

“I am running a headshot event for the students in my dorm … any chance you are available to take the pictures? … pretty-please-with-sugar-on-top *blink*blink*.”

Little does she know I will drop everything to drive five hours in a snowstorm if it means I can be in her presence as well as being of some help.

Or maybe she knows all too well that I will drop everything for her when it is coupled with my favorite hobby? Suffice it to say,  I wasn’t exactly what anyone would call a helicopter parent when she was growing up … I was not one to swoop in and save the day.

Back then, I had the idea that what kids need (within reason) was the freedom to figure things out for themselves.

Now … in hindsight, I can see that sometimes, to her, that stand-backish-ness may have resembled benign neglect. At least that’s what I wonder about nearly seven times a day as my social algorithms toss me video lists that will help me identify if I may have an Adult Child of an Emotionally Immature Parent. 

She reassures me that is not how she feels, but if she did, she trusts that I would possess the maturity to hear her out.

It’s not as if I am superhuman, having never made mistakes. I never even pretended to have all the answers.

But I did check in, and I acknowledged how new I felt I was to the world, too. Despite having lived inside of it for a couple of decades longer, I only had so much insight.

I suppose that’s the maturity part; the acceptance that your opinion is not always golden just because you’re headed toward those yellow-brick years.

Ahead of the storm

Anticipation kept me awake. 

I switch off the alarm before it rings, and while I’m a little annoyed that planning a run before work tends to inhibit my sleep, I accept the late-night soundtrack outside my window — gusting winds and a Long Horned Owl —  as welcome compensation. 

I avoid looking out that window first thing, convincing myself I want to be surprised by any snow that may have fallen earlier than previously predicted. 

A millisecond before my feet connect with the floor, I feel the skin around my face tighten into a wince. 

It’s preemptive. I know the floors are cold enough to send stabbing pain into my soles. I expect it.

As I hobble around it will loosen. By the time I have pulled in the clothes I set out the night before I hope to be gliding around as smooth as silk.

Hope is still in play. 

The wildcard has yet to be played. My left foot - the inner arch to be specific - has been trying to tell me something.

I am holding out hope that it’s all a grand bluff. 

Truth be told I’ve been on guard that the grumbly appendage is engaging in stealth negotiations with a little point near the edge of my back that is intermittently threatening rebellion.

It’s not that I’m ignoring my frenemies, it’s just that they become quiet enough after takeoff that I tell myself it’s ok to postpone our come-to-Jesus moment until we land in three to seven miles.

I will go slow. I'm hedging my bets that it’s not an injury in the making as much as it is a quirk of advancing age to be managed. 

Just being out here in the dark and cold feels like an accomplishment. Getting out of bed before dawn, wrapping myself in layers and safety lights so that passing motorists are not left unaware.

The snow has been falling. It softens the noise of the world. Enough that its dangers can take you by surprise. It soaks up the sound of cars and trucks that may or may not be compensating for the ice that after days of fluctuating temperatures has a solid base, 

Nevertheless, the challenge is part of the plan. 

It feels good to be prepared. For an instant, after I leave the house, I stand on the porch absorbing the cold as a welcome recalibration. I had been bundled up inside long enough to have courted overheating, 

I even carry a flashlight for extra precaution, alternately swinging it by my side as if directing planes down a runway, and shining it on the roadway ahead to troubleshoot potential trouble spots. 

No one wants to be surprised by potholes or camouflaged ice. I know to stick to the roadways as they are more evenly seasoned. When the spring comes I know

to make noise; I don’t want to surprise any critters newly awakening from their winter slumbers.

Dawn greets me midway home. I am wide awake and grateful that I have managed to avoid the worst of the weather. 

Adult Education

On the eighth day of this New Year of My Malcontent, I lay on a high school cafeteria floor and tried to relax. 

Calm would not come easily, I knew, what with the Chaotic News of Everything and All. However, I hadn’t counted on a malfunctioning soft-drink vending machine providing the necessary distraction from those inner thoughts when I chose the location next to it, unfurled a yoga mat, and copped a squat.

I had, however, calculated that the room would be freezing, so I bundled myself in a down parka, switching it to fit like a sleeping bag by wrapping myself in its arms, straight-jacket style.

The instructor’s voice was barely audible over the racket of the machine, not to mention through the soft pillow mask I had made of my coat’s hood. I contorted comically to be able to hear her more clearly. The image I must have projected to my neighbors as we stretched this way and that, me noisily swishing around in my parka sack as we all tried to follow the clear-sounding directions of our teacher.

“Take a deep breath in,” she said to the room, which was pleasantly packed with folks, who, I assumed, had also sought out this eight-week series of calm and tranquility to hone their own inner peace. 

The bargain price of the series (thanks to the value of public education) was a bonus for us all. 

We – with our worn joggers and stocking feet – looked more like the rabble than the fabu.

No matter how long I’ve practiced, each class feels new. In this one,  none of the poses brought us to our feet, and only a few would bring us to a seated or kneeling position. So I struggled to translate what I knew from standing into prone.

The voice at the front of the room said something about pushing against the soles of our feet with our legs crossed, left over right … or right over left? 

Craning my neck to see the instructor, turned out to be a mistake. It’s been a while since THAT muscle has been asked to move independently of the other muscles that hold my shoulders and back together. I heeded the warnings and eased off.

I turned to the folks beside me, stealing enough furtive glances to understand what had been asked of us and correcting my form accordingly.  

I started to sweat unnecessarily.

As the class wore on my wishing-to-be a younger self gave in to the more restful stretch. Truth be told, each motion became a surprising challenge and I anxiously wondered if somehow organs had shifted in my torso, now that I had set my intention to extend my arms toward one side of the room and my legs toward the other.

A few more uncomfortable moments (without discernible effort) remind me that I should have better appreciated the body I once had, the one that didn’t make strange cracking sounds or stab me with sharp pains out of nowhere. The body I must now accept and start to care for with patience (and no sudden movements). 

My focus moved to my closest neighbor, the vending machine, which sounded as if its inner workings were spinning off cubes of ice into parts unknown. I breathed in at the whirring, and out at the clunk. In and out … until I was calm.

I lay staring at the ceiling and thinking of my son, who had been in this very room a few hours before, no doubt challenging his friends to contests of nugget eating and ice tea taste-testings. 

I had asked him if he wanted to join me …believing some fallacy notion that he might enjoy hanging out with his ol’ mom at his current alma mater before trading up to college. 

He’d “rather have a root canal,” he answered with a grin, which is understandable for a boy his age. 

Flexibility comes and goes with age, I think. Neither of us seems to have enough of it at this particular moment. 

When the class ends, I collect my things and roll up the mat. 

I am grateful for this community. Grateful to be reminded so gently about what we stand to lose.

As I turn to nod to the vending machine, thanking it for its service, I notice a hand-written sign taped to the front, warning those who would dare to plunk in their quarters that the beverage dispensed would be warm. “Cold water available from the attendant. All you need to do is ask.”

And I am grateful anew, because when I get home I will ask my son about this rickety old machine, and I know he will laugh and eagerly tell me all about it.