Sharing, Part 2

If I had imagined, wished for or planned it, it wouldn't have happened. But there we were, R. an I., having dinner on the half-varnished deck, her asking me about my life, just as E. had done two nights before.

Something in the air perhaps, or the water; maybe the moon.

Of course with her, being older and female, it was different. She wasn't solely the audience. She was a participant. She wasn't interested in only listening. She wanted to reveal.

I took it in.

We spoke of our respective loves and mistakes, of heartbreak and healing.

The memories I shared were long dormant—but for her they were vivid. She tried matching them up with the mother she knows, wincing at the thought of me being with anyone but F.

Then she shared, tentatively, discretely, relieved that she could. I matched up her revelations with the daughter I  know, and did some wincing of my own.

It was tough to not preach or worry; to offer my meager two cents and sit back.

She took in what she could.

Then, she cleared the table.

Sharing

“Tell me about your life,” he said. “Tell me the stuff you've never told me before. The stuff you thought would freak me out when I was young.”

Was this my 16-year-old talking? The kid whose attention span lasts as long as an instagram?

It was just the two of us, cooking and eating a meal together on the half-varnished deck. The conversation kicked up, like a waterspout. He was wrung out and famished after 90 minutes of lacrosse in the blazing sun; grateful to me for bringing him to practice and taking him home. Simply, grateful.

And it got him to thinking: about the kind of childhood he has had and the kind I didn't. I've shared bits and pieces with him and R., over the years. Mostly stories about my mother and her struggles and the fall-out that made it impossible for me to forgive her, even in these 20 years since her death.

But I decided to share a little more. I grabbed a photo album and talked him through my family tree, including the father I never knew. I detailed the events that undid my mother, long before she’d had me. I narrated the pages of her life, from beautiful newlywed to stoic widow to second-time bride to battered woman to batterer.

“Did she every say she was sorry?” he asked, suddenly reminding me of the gentle, tow-headed toddler he used to be.  

“Never,” I said.

“I know you, and you’re a very forgiving person,” he said, trying to see me as someone with a closed heart, someone he has never had to experience.“It must have been pretty bad, whatever she did.”

Of the many lessons I have taught my children, the importance of forgiveness has been paramount.

"Life is short," I have always told them. "Staying angry is a waste of time."

When he was young, he held these pieces of parental teaching like treasure and me, as an idol. I was infallible. I held my mother similarly, before her pain grew out of control and she turned it on me.

Life's disappointments grow us up, revealing the pedestal for what it is.

E. looked at me closely. There was no hiding my frailty, my hypocrisy, my flawed humanity.

“If she’d just said ‘sorry,’ I bet you would have forgiven her,” he said. “I know you.”

We cleaned up dinner and he shifted: fresh clothes, cologne. At the front door, he pulled me in for a hug. "I love you,” he said, before heading into the night.

The Changing Nest

R. is moving out—again. She and a friend have rented an apartment. This is her last week at home.

We had settled nicely back into the rhythm of living together; much nicer than her high school days. The year in college has matured her. Her year away from home has matured us all.

As she leaves, we beam our attention on E., newly-anointed high school senior, whose college explorations are ramping up. It is almost unbelievable that in a year from now, we will be packing him up.

Then it will be just F. and me, in this house, in this life, with the dog.

I’m cavalier most days, bellyaching about how I can’t wait to have the house to myself.

But if I get really honest, and think about the times both kids have been away and I’ve been here alone, I’ll know I’m in for a bumpy ride.

Learning

They spent the afternoon varnishing the deck.  F. said he’d pay them. He’s usually the more generous of the two of us.

He grew up wealthy. I grew up poor.  His parents paid for his college education. I scrubbed toilets to pay for mine. This informs much of the difference in how we parent. He’s easy. I’m tough.

But truthfully, I don’t see how making their life too easy helps them, in the long run.

Not that varnishing a deck on an 80+-degree day is easy. On the other hand, when will they learn that growing up means working harder than they ever imagined?

Maybe it’s my own childhood grudge. But, between the money we spend on gas getting to and from E’s lacrosse tournaments, lacrosse camps and equipment, train fare to and from internships in the city, not to mention voice lessons, acting lessons, Iphones, and first and last month’s rent on a new apartment….

…must we really pay them for varnishing the deck?

Fleeting

The bulging biceps, the deep voice and the new whiskers emerging under the chin throw me off a little. So does the prestigious internship in the city, the deposit on an apartment and nights out that end just before dawn.

E., stretched out in bed, his massive arms cradling his sleepy blond head, asks me to make him French toast for breakfast; while R. coyly accepts my offer to pack her a lunch and drive her to the train.

She has spent the past year fending for herself, independently and capably. He is not far behind. And yet, as school winds down and summer revs up, they soften, let down their guard, and allow themselves to need me.

Who knows why. Maybe they're exhausted and want tender loving care. Maybe they feel, as do I, the curtain closing on this chapter of our lives.

The reasons don't matter. They still need me. And I still need their need.

I make French toast, pack a turkey sandwich, ferry to and from the train. 

All the things that felt so demanding when they were both here full time, now feel like precious, fleeting opportunities.

I grab them. Because in a blink, they’ll be gone.

Priiorities

Maybe it’s because we’re just a year away from an empty nest; or because we’re closer to 60 than 50; or because a dear friend is dying. Maybe it’s all these reasons and more that the days are feeling especially precarious and precious.

We've quit squabbling over who clears the table and who does the dishes. It doesn’t matter if the tilapia was cheaper elsewhere, or if we forgot to take out the recycling.

What matters is making the most out of the time we have, alone and together. It’s about savoring the big picture instead of losing ourselves in the details; maximizing meaning and joy, and letting go of the stuff that leads nowhere.