Heartburn

As if deciding which school to commit to (a solid, small liberal arts college) wasn’t enough for one day, E., at the end of the party that I let him throw at the last minute to celebrate—and which got a little out of hand—informed me that he has a girlfriend.

“I’m not a little kid anymore, Mom. I’m a grown—“

He stopped short of saying man.

It's all wonderful news.

It's just a lot to digest in so little time.

Preparing

 “What will you do without me?”

E. is needling me. I have been complaining about his mess or his insolence or his not helping around the house. I pretend to laugh. I roll my eyes, smirk. He smirks back.

.

We have been looking at colleges, meeting with coaches, weighing options. He has another full year of high school, but coaches and players lock up commitments a year in advance. He’s a high school senior, but it feels like he’s leaving tomorrow. The last of the nest.

I’m not ready.

Most of the time, when he’s home, I’m gnashing my teeth at the heaps of mess he leaves in his wake: the dishes, the dirty socks, the wet towels, the gum wrappers, the bowls with dried ice cream, the lacrosse balls and sticks and cleats and netting.

Go, go, go, I think, as I slog through his piles.

Then, after returning from our most recent college visit, the unexpected: I am nervous, edgy. While scrounging for stamps in a drawer, I find a stack of photos. E. is a tow-headed toddler. Beaming. Kissing my face.

He is so young. I was so much younger.

I burst into tears.

Attitude

We've been on the lacrosse circuit all summer: E, me and E’s attitude.

He and F. gradually found their way back to each other. But within a day, E's insolence found its way back too.

F. and I blame hormones and anxiety over college. The stakes are high: By September of senior year, hopeful lacrosse players have offers from colleges. E. has a few already. Still, not knowing where he will end up feeds his anxiety, which feeds his impudence.

Recently, upon arriving at the campus of a college that is hosting a tournament, I awaken E. for directions to the playing fields. He snoozed contentedly for the entire ride. I have been driving since dawn.

“I dunno,” he says yawning, irritated. “Can’t you just drive around and look for someone to ask?”

I am stunned and irked. His first game is in 45 minutes.

“No,” I respond with forced calm. “I cannot drive around. This is your tournament and it is your responsibility to know where you need to be.”

I park on a side street, turn off the car, and lean back for nap. Half an hour later, E. wakes me up.

“I’m on Field 5,” he chirps. 

I take my place along the sidelines with the other parents, and scout for my son. He is nearly indistinguishable from his teammates in his blue and white jersey and spaceman-looking helmet. But I nail him: taking his sweet time to tighten his gloves, walking with the swagger I know.

Warriors

They have been at it for days, father and son.  Deadlocked. Too angry with each other to speak, too proud to realize they hurt.

It began with E’s nasty words. Not excusable, but typical for a 16-year-old male. F. felt wounded, then furious, and rightly so. Who is this child, who we love more than life, who aims jagged words at the jugular vein? Do we blame his adolescence? A testosterone surge?  Or, do we blame ourselves for not having been strict enough when he was a funny little wise guy?

Deep down, E. is a decent kid. He can even be a mensch. But these days, he’s all bravado. Always posturing. Rarely pensive. He’s constantly flexing—his athletic prowess and his will; ever proving to himself that he is strong enough. That he is, enough.

It doesn’t take a magnifying glass to see where so much bluster comes from. But F. can’t see his son’s insecurity, maybe because he has too much of his own. So, instead of shelving his pain and reaching out, he flexes too.

Like battling rams, their horns are locked.

I’ve been at my share of impasses with E. And, for better or worse, I’m usually the one who extends the olive branch first. After all, I remember what it was like to have a parent who stayed angry; and, who refused to apologize. A dynamics take two, and staying angry—however satisfying—seems like a colossal waste of time. It’s also not the kind of life lesson I want to teach.

But I’m female. And, as evolved about gender as I’d like to think I am, there’s simply not as much at stake for me as there is for a male when it comes to laying down weapons first.

F. traveled to a tournament with E. all weekend and the two barely spoke. Before dropping him off at a lacrosse camp for the next few days, F., still angry, at least managed to tell E. he loves him. Predictably, E. said nothing back.

Father and son, cloaked in armor. How will they find each other? How will they find themselves?

Truthtelling

The fireworks are over, and the night falls silent, the air moist and thick. E. coaxes the dog out from under the kitchen table, where he is curled up and trembling, terrified of the July 4^th explosions. I join them for a walk.

When E. and I are agitated, we mobilize ourselves. We drop off our still-shaken pup and lap the block, debriefing each other on the evening. Close friends, a married couple, came to dinner. E. has known them all his life; he has been friends with their kids forever.

Now, one partner of the couple—the dad—is dying. He’s been sick for a few years, and his decline has become poignant.

At 16, E. has experienced more than his share of death: His uncle--my beloved brother--died when E. was in the second grade; a best friend succumbed to brain cancer in the eighth grade. Even then, E. was too young to digest life’s ending, the randomness of it, the finality.  

“I wish I had understood it then,” he says of his friend, who had been diagnosed in the sixth grade. “I wish I had known how it would end.”

I knew that his friend would die, but mother’s instinct, however misguided, compelled me to shield my boy from the truth for as long as possible. E. loved his friend. He was determined that hope and prayers would cure him. Now, he wonders if knowing the truth from the beginning would have steeled him, made him better able to withstand the loss once it came. He wonders if knowing our friend’s fate will make it easier for us.

I think of my brother, sick for 15 years, on the edge of death—and me on the edge with him--for four. I couldn’t have been more prepared. Or so I thought, until he finally died.

E. and I circle the block, processing our respective sadness.

“I have four reasons to not take life for granted,” he says, ticking off the names of four people he knows—including our friend—who have faced death young. “But it’s hard,” he says, reconsidering. “No one is grateful all the time. We forget. We live on automatic.”

We pass our house, the porch light beaming, the front door open, the air-conditioning beckoning. E’s skin glistens with sweat. We take another lap.