When our children are very little, the tiniest scrape or scratch sends us running to the medicine cabinet for first aid. Often, a kiss is all a boo-boo really needs – the ability to heal a hurt is one of those God-given talents unique to mothers. As our children age, however, the hurts they endure are often not visible to the naked eye. Some we will hear about, others we will sense but not be able to identify, and many we will never learn of at all. And for the most part, these emotional bruises will not heal with merely a well placed kiss.
My son and his best friend broke up. The friendship ended abruptly for reasons that are too convoluted to make much sense to an adult. The final result is that two boys who spent the past year and a half joined at the hip, heads together laughing at an inside joke, and talking on the phone for hours during Club Penguin marathons now behave like virtual strangers when they pass in the hall. The other boy has moved on to different friends with different interest than the ones he shared with my son, while my boy, though still popular, hangs back a bit now, unsure of his footing in the hierarchy of near middle-school boys. He sees, suddenly, that you can be in one day and out the next, with little or no warning and often no clue as to what you did wrong. The tide turns, the clique realigns, and like pre-school musical chairs, somebody becomes the odd man out.
For me the split feels personal and ragged and sharp; I try not to meddle but it is difficult. This boy’s mom and I are good friends too. What happens to grown up friendships when their children no longer want to set up play dates and sleepovers? For me and the other mom, it means tippy toeing around the subject of our kids and trying not to place blame. It means finding ways to get together without kids as part of the equation. And I suspect it means figuring out if our own friendship has enough emotional glue to withstand this emotional storm.
For now I struggle to find words to encourage my son that don’t sound completely parental and lame. He will make other friends. This won’t always hurt. He and this boy may end up being best friends again. It really will be O.K.
In the meantime, I’m on a desperate search for a heart-shaped band aid. One for him. One for me.
Monday, May 25, 2009
Thursday, May 7, 2009
How to Hug a Porcupine
We worked on the project for two months. A fifth-grade research paper with supporting artifacts, visual aids and audio visual to culminate in a 15 minute in-class presentation that would make any parent proud. I edited rough drafts. Offered presentation tips. Typed a final draft. The teacher said parents were encouraged to attend, so the date was circled on my calendar for weeks. Then, driving home from school a few days ago, my 11-year old son unexpectedly blurted out: “Mom, I don’t want you to come.”
Willing myself not to react, I took a breath and calmly asked, “Why not?” Looking desperate he said “I just want to do this on my own, O.K.?” And although I feigned a quick recovery, he saw me wince, a reaction he was quick to interpret as manipulative, and fumed “See, this is why I didn’t want to tell you! I knew you’d be upset!” As I bit my lip to avoid another blunder, he jammed in his earphones and spent the rest of the drive staring out the window.
I’ve blogged on this topic before and will undoubtedly do so again, since this new relationship with my pre-teen son is still unfolding. One of the more interesting changes in our relationship dynamic is that our disagreements seem wrought with gender-based landmines. Our dialogs often sound more like lover’s spats than mother/son disagreements. He plays the role of the emotionally distant boyfriend who chafes at being questioned, while I vacillate between nagging girlfriend and spurned lover who will do anything to get the guy to notice me.
On the surface, his desire for me to skip his presentation is of little consequence – I know I’m making too big a deal of it. Besides, my arguments that other mothers, dads and even grandparents have all shown up without incident have fallen on deaf ears. But it is what I read into this sudden line in the sand that pains me; the unspoken message: “Mom, you are not needed here.”
So the question of course is will I respect his wishes and stay home, or enforce my rights as a parent and show up as planned? I am undecided, but wonder if he would even notice my presence in the back of the classroom. These days, I can stand right in front of him and be made to feel virtually invisible. Poised as he is on the edge of puberty, his gaze seems permanently fixed on points in the future – a future filled with friends and freedoms that make a mother’s care increasingly irrelevant. Clinging to the childhood that is already behind him only makes me look desperate, and causes him to recoil all the more. His well-aimed barbs are strategic attempts to peel away the paper-thin layers of my parental control. I’m working on letting go.
So how do you hug a porcupine? The obvious answer is very carefully but the truthful one is, you don’t. You give it some space and bide your time. Once you’ve earned its trust, it may eventually come close enough to let you into its bristled, prickly world.
If you’re lucky.
Willing myself not to react, I took a breath and calmly asked, “Why not?” Looking desperate he said “I just want to do this on my own, O.K.?” And although I feigned a quick recovery, he saw me wince, a reaction he was quick to interpret as manipulative, and fumed “See, this is why I didn’t want to tell you! I knew you’d be upset!” As I bit my lip to avoid another blunder, he jammed in his earphones and spent the rest of the drive staring out the window.
I’ve blogged on this topic before and will undoubtedly do so again, since this new relationship with my pre-teen son is still unfolding. One of the more interesting changes in our relationship dynamic is that our disagreements seem wrought with gender-based landmines. Our dialogs often sound more like lover’s spats than mother/son disagreements. He plays the role of the emotionally distant boyfriend who chafes at being questioned, while I vacillate between nagging girlfriend and spurned lover who will do anything to get the guy to notice me.
On the surface, his desire for me to skip his presentation is of little consequence – I know I’m making too big a deal of it. Besides, my arguments that other mothers, dads and even grandparents have all shown up without incident have fallen on deaf ears. But it is what I read into this sudden line in the sand that pains me; the unspoken message: “Mom, you are not needed here.”
So the question of course is will I respect his wishes and stay home, or enforce my rights as a parent and show up as planned? I am undecided, but wonder if he would even notice my presence in the back of the classroom. These days, I can stand right in front of him and be made to feel virtually invisible. Poised as he is on the edge of puberty, his gaze seems permanently fixed on points in the future – a future filled with friends and freedoms that make a mother’s care increasingly irrelevant. Clinging to the childhood that is already behind him only makes me look desperate, and causes him to recoil all the more. His well-aimed barbs are strategic attempts to peel away the paper-thin layers of my parental control. I’m working on letting go.
So how do you hug a porcupine? The obvious answer is very carefully but the truthful one is, you don’t. You give it some space and bide your time. Once you’ve earned its trust, it may eventually come close enough to let you into its bristled, prickly world.
If you’re lucky.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Can I Be Done?
When my daughter was about four, she’d get tired of the food on her dinner plate, push it away and announce “I’m done.” To which my measured reply was: “You’re not done until I say so. Keep eating.”
At age six, she still has a tendency to leave certain foods untouched, but since she’s figured out the game well enough to try and make me think she’s submitting to authority, she asks, “Mom, can I be done?” My reply hasn’t changed, but her wording did get me thinking.
There are an awful lot of things I’d like to be done with. My short list includes night sweats, hairline grays that refuse to take color, and random chin hairs that seem to sprout overnight. It’s especially nice when you find one of these hairs by accident, say while checking your makeup in your review mirror, on your way home from seeing friends.
I’d also like to be done with all things Bikini Bottom. Unlike Bob the Builder, Dora the Explorer or The Backyardigans, Sponge Bob seems to outlive all developmental stages, apparently remaining hilarious to audiences from pre-school to pre-teen and beyond. If your children are young and you are still a Sponge Bob newbie, you might say: “But I like Sponge Bob – it’s funny!” I said that too. Six years ago. Back when it was still funny. When you have seen the driving school episode a gazillion times, trust me, you will want it to be done.
While I’m kicking over some pop culture sacred cows, can I be done with Hannah Montana? I know tweens and moms love her wholesome image, her hunky dad and her quirky antics, but can’t we all really see where this is going? She will grow up and long to pursue grown up roles. To achieve this she will need to shed the squeaky clean Disney image, and like the Britneys and Lindseys before her, she will fall from grace and leave a lot of karaoke-crazed little girls in the dust. I hope I’m wrong – but I’d still like to sever the relationship now, before things get ugly.
I’d like to be done with ridiculous news fillers masquerading as headline news. Does anybody really care what a beauty pageant contestant thinks about gay marriage? Does anybody care what Perez Hilton thinks about what she thinks about gay marriage? Spare me.
I’d like to be done with people who respond to a polite “thank you,” with the ubiquitous “No worries.” Call me old fashioned but in my book, “You’re welcome,” is still the correct answer.
Public displays of butt-crack tattoos? Done. People who shout into cell phones while shopping, dining or simply walking down the street. Done. And any coffee drink that requires more than a three word description while ordering (it’s just so nineties) - totally done.
Well it felt good to get all that out of my system. And I know what you’re thinking. “Is she done yet?”
Done.
At age six, she still has a tendency to leave certain foods untouched, but since she’s figured out the game well enough to try and make me think she’s submitting to authority, she asks, “Mom, can I be done?” My reply hasn’t changed, but her wording did get me thinking.
There are an awful lot of things I’d like to be done with. My short list includes night sweats, hairline grays that refuse to take color, and random chin hairs that seem to sprout overnight. It’s especially nice when you find one of these hairs by accident, say while checking your makeup in your review mirror, on your way home from seeing friends.
I’d also like to be done with all things Bikini Bottom. Unlike Bob the Builder, Dora the Explorer or The Backyardigans, Sponge Bob seems to outlive all developmental stages, apparently remaining hilarious to audiences from pre-school to pre-teen and beyond. If your children are young and you are still a Sponge Bob newbie, you might say: “But I like Sponge Bob – it’s funny!” I said that too. Six years ago. Back when it was still funny. When you have seen the driving school episode a gazillion times, trust me, you will want it to be done.
While I’m kicking over some pop culture sacred cows, can I be done with Hannah Montana? I know tweens and moms love her wholesome image, her hunky dad and her quirky antics, but can’t we all really see where this is going? She will grow up and long to pursue grown up roles. To achieve this she will need to shed the squeaky clean Disney image, and like the Britneys and Lindseys before her, she will fall from grace and leave a lot of karaoke-crazed little girls in the dust. I hope I’m wrong – but I’d still like to sever the relationship now, before things get ugly.
I’d like to be done with ridiculous news fillers masquerading as headline news. Does anybody really care what a beauty pageant contestant thinks about gay marriage? Does anybody care what Perez Hilton thinks about what she thinks about gay marriage? Spare me.
I’d like to be done with people who respond to a polite “thank you,” with the ubiquitous “No worries.” Call me old fashioned but in my book, “You’re welcome,” is still the correct answer.
Public displays of butt-crack tattoos? Done. People who shout into cell phones while shopping, dining or simply walking down the street. Done. And any coffee drink that requires more than a three word description while ordering (it’s just so nineties) - totally done.
Well it felt good to get all that out of my system. And I know what you’re thinking. “Is she done yet?”
Done.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
It's the Gift, Not the Thought That Counts
I was flipping through my latest issue of Real Simple today when I came across an ad that really shocked me. The picture showed a close up of a yummy looking egg dish and the headline in big bold letters declared: “Mom deserves the best...get her the non-stick frittata pan.”
Excuse me?
How is it possible in 2009 that a modern magazine (Real Simple no less) can feature an antiquated ad suggesting that because I’m a mom I will be thrilled to receive some sort of appliance for Mother’s Day? Because the obvious aftermath of unwrapping that pan, or any pan, is that I will then use it to cook something. For somebody else. New washing machine? Go do some laundry why don’t ya! Vacuum cleaner? Start sucking it up honey the dust bunnies are waiting.
I happen to be married to a guy who basically gets it, so I’m confident I won’t be getting the aforementioned frittata pan on May 10. But since I have a platform to vent, I thought I’d make a short list of dos and don’ts when shopping for moms – ladies feel free to weigh in with your own hit list:
First, do not get me chocolate, cookies or any kind of baked goods. As every mom in America knows, Mother’s Day falls a scant 17 days prior to Memorial Day, the beginning of yet another long and unforgiving swimsuit season. Now is not the time to trip us up.
Don’t take me to some overpriced all-you-can-eat brunch. See reason above.
Unless you went to see Vicky, do not buy me a “warm” robe, “cozy” slippers, or “comfy” pj’s. I do not want to look or feel like my mother on Mother’s Day.
Do think outside the box. Why not create a really cool playlist of songs you think I’d like and then send me off with a tall, cool drink to chill out and groove.
Make me a mimosa. Because champagne is fun, especially in the morning, and because it’s impossible not to smile when you say “mimosa.”
Take the kids to a matinee. This may surprise you but I actually love my home when I’m the only one in it. No one leaving piles to be picked up. Nobody bugging me for snacks, sex or both. It also lets me do the things women like to do when they are alone, like put a shower cap on and deep condition my hair or pass gas freely without having to hold it in until everyone else leaves the immediate vicinity.
I’d love to hear from my readers on what their ideal Mom’s Day gift is. It would be funny to hear what some of the all time bombs are too. In the meantime I’m calling Calphalon to invite them to wake up and join the 21st century. Who knows, maybe I’ll go ahead and order an egg pan while I have them on the phone.
Excuse me?
How is it possible in 2009 that a modern magazine (Real Simple no less) can feature an antiquated ad suggesting that because I’m a mom I will be thrilled to receive some sort of appliance for Mother’s Day? Because the obvious aftermath of unwrapping that pan, or any pan, is that I will then use it to cook something. For somebody else. New washing machine? Go do some laundry why don’t ya! Vacuum cleaner? Start sucking it up honey the dust bunnies are waiting.
I happen to be married to a guy who basically gets it, so I’m confident I won’t be getting the aforementioned frittata pan on May 10. But since I have a platform to vent, I thought I’d make a short list of dos and don’ts when shopping for moms – ladies feel free to weigh in with your own hit list:
First, do not get me chocolate, cookies or any kind of baked goods. As every mom in America knows, Mother’s Day falls a scant 17 days prior to Memorial Day, the beginning of yet another long and unforgiving swimsuit season. Now is not the time to trip us up.
Don’t take me to some overpriced all-you-can-eat brunch. See reason above.
Unless you went to see Vicky, do not buy me a “warm” robe, “cozy” slippers, or “comfy” pj’s. I do not want to look or feel like my mother on Mother’s Day.
Do think outside the box. Why not create a really cool playlist of songs you think I’d like and then send me off with a tall, cool drink to chill out and groove.
Make me a mimosa. Because champagne is fun, especially in the morning, and because it’s impossible not to smile when you say “mimosa.”
Take the kids to a matinee. This may surprise you but I actually love my home when I’m the only one in it. No one leaving piles to be picked up. Nobody bugging me for snacks, sex or both. It also lets me do the things women like to do when they are alone, like put a shower cap on and deep condition my hair or pass gas freely without having to hold it in until everyone else leaves the immediate vicinity.
I’d love to hear from my readers on what their ideal Mom’s Day gift is. It would be funny to hear what some of the all time bombs are too. In the meantime I’m calling Calphalon to invite them to wake up and join the 21st century. Who knows, maybe I’ll go ahead and order an egg pan while I have them on the phone.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Sleepless in the Suburbs
The thing about being a mid-life mom is that your body throws way more curves your way than your kids ever do. Just when you’ve got the parenting thing down pat, you begin to lose control of your bodily functions. Okay, I’m not using Depends yet. But when my hormones started going haywire a couple of years ago, my internal thermostat began to reset - I used to perspire; now I sweat. My moods went from even keel to completely off kilter. And I have turned into a nocturnal creature, an exhausted shell of a woman who craves sleep more than sex, food or oxygen.
If you read any books on perimenopause, you’ll see insomnia listed as one of the most common symptoms. Before you experience it for yourself, however, you may think it is easily remedied. A glass of wine. Soft music. A warm bath. How hard can it be to fall asleep? As a two year veteran of the sleepless sisterhood, I can say with some assurance that it is virtually impossible.
Let me pause here to say that it’s not that I haven’t slept at all in 24 months. Most of the time I’m so tired I fall right to sleep once I hit the pillow. I just don’t stay asleep long enough for it to matter. As if wired to some invisible, sadistic alarm, my body jolts awake without fail between 2:00 and 3:00 a.m. most every night. I don’t look at the clock anymore, but I can tell from the pitch darkness of my bedroom that it is still hours until daybreak. And then I do what millions of other hormonally challenged women do to pass the time.
I wonder if I should have bought those black pumps instead of the brown ones. I have imaginary do over conversations with people I’m still angry with. I stress about bills I haven’t paid and feel guilty about all of my parenting mistakes. I think about men I didn’t marry, vacations I never took, and as I roll over for the umpteenth time, check to see if I can pinch an inch around my mid section while making a mental note to get to the gym this week.
When I can’t sleep, I become curious about who else is up. I never actually get out of bed; it would be like admitting defeat; but if I did, I would log onto FB or head over to the open-all-night Walmart, just to reassure myself that I am not alone.
Are you in the sleepless suburban sisterhood? If you are, you will recognize others of your species by their markings. We are the women wearing layers of concealer atop our permanent undereye circles. We keep Viseen and Nodoze in our purses. We smile and nod a lot when people talk to us in an attempt to hide the fact that we have mastered the art of napping mid conversation. When we are with one another, we cluster and cluck about our mutual exhaustion, marveling at the effortless energy displayed by women half our age. When we were young, with so much yet to accomplish, we wished for more hours in a day.
Be careful what you wish for.
If you read any books on perimenopause, you’ll see insomnia listed as one of the most common symptoms. Before you experience it for yourself, however, you may think it is easily remedied. A glass of wine. Soft music. A warm bath. How hard can it be to fall asleep? As a two year veteran of the sleepless sisterhood, I can say with some assurance that it is virtually impossible.
Let me pause here to say that it’s not that I haven’t slept at all in 24 months. Most of the time I’m so tired I fall right to sleep once I hit the pillow. I just don’t stay asleep long enough for it to matter. As if wired to some invisible, sadistic alarm, my body jolts awake without fail between 2:00 and 3:00 a.m. most every night. I don’t look at the clock anymore, but I can tell from the pitch darkness of my bedroom that it is still hours until daybreak. And then I do what millions of other hormonally challenged women do to pass the time.
I wonder if I should have bought those black pumps instead of the brown ones. I have imaginary do over conversations with people I’m still angry with. I stress about bills I haven’t paid and feel guilty about all of my parenting mistakes. I think about men I didn’t marry, vacations I never took, and as I roll over for the umpteenth time, check to see if I can pinch an inch around my mid section while making a mental note to get to the gym this week.
When I can’t sleep, I become curious about who else is up. I never actually get out of bed; it would be like admitting defeat; but if I did, I would log onto FB or head over to the open-all-night Walmart, just to reassure myself that I am not alone.
Are you in the sleepless suburban sisterhood? If you are, you will recognize others of your species by their markings. We are the women wearing layers of concealer atop our permanent undereye circles. We keep Viseen and Nodoze in our purses. We smile and nod a lot when people talk to us in an attempt to hide the fact that we have mastered the art of napping mid conversation. When we are with one another, we cluster and cluck about our mutual exhaustion, marveling at the effortless energy displayed by women half our age. When we were young, with so much yet to accomplish, we wished for more hours in a day.
Be careful what you wish for.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Watching the Second Hand
I read an article on time management recently and the author described one of the women profiled as a “full time student and full time mom.” I come from a generation of women weaned on the Helens: Reddy and Gurley Brown, which means I wholeheartedly believe a woman can do it all. But as I’ve gotten older I’ve had to concede you really can’t do or have it all at the same time. Especially not when you have kids. So while I think you can be a full time student OR a full time mom, you can't be both in a 24-hour day. In the past six weeks, I’ve learned this lesson first hand.
Since I’ve gone back to working a 40 hour week, my time and my heart are divided. I spend my days with virtual strangers with a scant three hours left over each evening to connect with my children. I can’t surprise them and swing by Baskin Robbins on the way home from school – it’s well past dinner time when we drag in each night. I can’t chauffer them to tennis or dance – my sitter does that now. I’m not even there to help with homework – they do it with teacher’s aide in the after-school homework club. I’m a full time writer. And a part time mom. And it hurts to put the words on paper.
I write because I love the written word. But I work because I prefer to write with a roof over my head. My decision to abandon the freelance life was made amid the pressure of a floundering economy and a need for two steady incomes, and I’m so thankful to be working in a field I enjoy. But at the end of the day (literally) I miss my babies.
When I had the luxury of being a full time parent and part time writer, I would sit at the park with other SAHMs and wonder aloud how working mothers did it. We, feeling stressed and harried with our carbon copy to do lists, thought we knew what it meant to be busy. Playdate. Costco. Post office. Bible study. Drive through Mickey D’s. Teacher conference. Dentist appointment. Sooooo busy. But we had our children with us, which often slowed us down, but brought with it a comfort we would not recognize until it was gone.
My son is in 5th grade and basically gets it when it comes to the economy and the reason mommy went back to work. He was doing pretty well with it too, until he realized I don't get off work in summer just because school is out. His dreams of lying around the house for three months are being replaced with long days at summer camp. My first grader remains somewhat clueless, but will surely ask why mommy isn’t driving on the next field trip. My response to these disappointments is tempered; I don’t want them to see how much more it disappoints me.
There are parenting theories about time, quality versus quantity. Having been on both sides of the debate, I’ve concluded that when it comes to being a mom, there is no quality or quantity; there is simply time. 24 hours in a day of your son or daughter’s childhood that slips by in a blink. For the working mother, that time becomes achingly precious. As I drop them off each morning, their small silhouettes diminishing too quickly in my rear view mirror, I tell myself I am doing the right thing. And then I will myself to keep driving, counting the hours until I see them again.
Since I’ve gone back to working a 40 hour week, my time and my heart are divided. I spend my days with virtual strangers with a scant three hours left over each evening to connect with my children. I can’t surprise them and swing by Baskin Robbins on the way home from school – it’s well past dinner time when we drag in each night. I can’t chauffer them to tennis or dance – my sitter does that now. I’m not even there to help with homework – they do it with teacher’s aide in the after-school homework club. I’m a full time writer. And a part time mom. And it hurts to put the words on paper.
I write because I love the written word. But I work because I prefer to write with a roof over my head. My decision to abandon the freelance life was made amid the pressure of a floundering economy and a need for two steady incomes, and I’m so thankful to be working in a field I enjoy. But at the end of the day (literally) I miss my babies.
When I had the luxury of being a full time parent and part time writer, I would sit at the park with other SAHMs and wonder aloud how working mothers did it. We, feeling stressed and harried with our carbon copy to do lists, thought we knew what it meant to be busy. Playdate. Costco. Post office. Bible study. Drive through Mickey D’s. Teacher conference. Dentist appointment. Sooooo busy. But we had our children with us, which often slowed us down, but brought with it a comfort we would not recognize until it was gone.
My son is in 5th grade and basically gets it when it comes to the economy and the reason mommy went back to work. He was doing pretty well with it too, until he realized I don't get off work in summer just because school is out. His dreams of lying around the house for three months are being replaced with long days at summer camp. My first grader remains somewhat clueless, but will surely ask why mommy isn’t driving on the next field trip. My response to these disappointments is tempered; I don’t want them to see how much more it disappoints me.
There are parenting theories about time, quality versus quantity. Having been on both sides of the debate, I’ve concluded that when it comes to being a mom, there is no quality or quantity; there is simply time. 24 hours in a day of your son or daughter’s childhood that slips by in a blink. For the working mother, that time becomes achingly precious. As I drop them off each morning, their small silhouettes diminishing too quickly in my rear view mirror, I tell myself I am doing the right thing. And then I will myself to keep driving, counting the hours until I see them again.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
The One That Got Away
I am officially hooked on FB and have re-connected with various BFFs from my past life. It’s fun and funny, and strangely empowering. You get that “fifteen minutes of fame” rush every time you make a mundane comment and half a dozen people weigh in on it. Suddenly, you’re the EF Hutton of cyberspace. My issue is that unlike many who have connected with old flames via social networking, I have not found a single former squeeze. I recently posted my frustration on my wall – I mean, where are these guys?
Last summer I attended my 30-year high school reunion and had an absolute blast. There’s a certain comfort level that comes with age – you no longer have to prove anything and can just relax and enjoy catching up with people who were largely responsible for the person you’ve become. I laughed and shared family pics with friends who knew me when – but every now and then I found myself looking over my shoulder for a face I’m not sure I’d recognize. In my mind and in my heart, he’s frozen in time, forever 19 and the one that got away.
Almost everyone has someone who haunts the high school hallways of their past. It could be an unrequited love, a first crush, love or heartbreak. Mine was most if not all of those – a boy who stole my innocence and my trust, so much so that over 30 years later I ponder the question “What if?”
Let me pause here to say I love my husband. Really. My online search has nothing to do with wanting to reignite some fantasy old flame; that would truly be a bridge to nowhere. No, it’s more about trying to understand the real nature of love and its ability to linger long after a relationship dies. And it’s a desire to merge fantasy with reality; because this boy in my memory is not 19. He’s nearly 51, his lean teenage body undoubtedly gone soft around the middle, the hair I tangled my fingers through grown thin and frosted with gray. He is married or divorced. He is a father, possibly a grandfather. Like me, he’s celebrated successes and setbacks. And I realize (though I find it hard to believe) he may not even remember me.
The lesson here, if you believe things happen or don’t for a reason, is that some things from your past are better left to memory.
I’ll let you know if I find him.
Last summer I attended my 30-year high school reunion and had an absolute blast. There’s a certain comfort level that comes with age – you no longer have to prove anything and can just relax and enjoy catching up with people who were largely responsible for the person you’ve become. I laughed and shared family pics with friends who knew me when – but every now and then I found myself looking over my shoulder for a face I’m not sure I’d recognize. In my mind and in my heart, he’s frozen in time, forever 19 and the one that got away.
Almost everyone has someone who haunts the high school hallways of their past. It could be an unrequited love, a first crush, love or heartbreak. Mine was most if not all of those – a boy who stole my innocence and my trust, so much so that over 30 years later I ponder the question “What if?”
Let me pause here to say I love my husband. Really. My online search has nothing to do with wanting to reignite some fantasy old flame; that would truly be a bridge to nowhere. No, it’s more about trying to understand the real nature of love and its ability to linger long after a relationship dies. And it’s a desire to merge fantasy with reality; because this boy in my memory is not 19. He’s nearly 51, his lean teenage body undoubtedly gone soft around the middle, the hair I tangled my fingers through grown thin and frosted with gray. He is married or divorced. He is a father, possibly a grandfather. Like me, he’s celebrated successes and setbacks. And I realize (though I find it hard to believe) he may not even remember me.
The lesson here, if you believe things happen or don’t for a reason, is that some things from your past are better left to memory.
I’ll let you know if I find him.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
