Priorities

He looked at me straight-faced. “I don’t drink alcohol.”

Proudly, I recounted this to the mom of one of his closest friends. She burst into laughter and asked if I also believe that tiny green men live on Mars.

E. has always melted me. Even at 16, when he demonstrates the most dishonest, manipulative or obnoxious behavior and my jaw is clenched in doubt or fury, he wins me over; so much so that, as he left for Junior Dinner, which culminated in a middle-of-the-night Coach bus ride to and from Manhattan, I told myself he doesn’t drink.

Still, I prayed: Let him stay safe. Whatever he does, let him have the good sense to stay safe.

I’m too soft. But right now, life feels too short to spend being angry at my kid for lying to me.

Of course, I didn’t think this way when he and R. were little and the tunnel of high-maintenance parenting felt endlessly dark. When the smallest missteps of toddlerhood or elementary school seemed like imperatives for punishment and moral sculpting; when trekking to playdates and parks and pediatricians left me too preoccupied and exhausted to give any meaningful thought to how different motherhood would feel at 50 or 55 or beyond, when I would be the more vulnerable one.

Now, I’m focused on thresholds: having mourned the deaths of several kids in our community, including one of his closest friends; grieved one of my brothers and witnessed the cancer treatment of the other; adjusted to the departure of R. and anticipating E’s in a year from now.

Days and weeks are a blur, and time is a runaway train. Small infractions are small. I close my eyes and hold my son close, even when he doesn't know.