Departure

Alerted by the cries of a child, I raised my dining room blinds to witness the stuggle of a neighborhood couple attempting to secure their toddler son into a double stroller.  I see the couple evey morning: two dogs, two children, two identical mugs of coffee.  Three years ago, the mugs was all they had.  Now the boy is wanting to walk beside the stroller,  the dogs have learned to heed the leash and a second child is sleeping on her side of the stroller.   It's been thirteen years since I sold our well-worn blue stroller at a garage sale.

On Saturday, our little family woke up early to see Isabel off to her junior year in college. Miraculously, we managed to pack her entire closet into the trunk and back seat of her Mazda.  We even found space for the artificial Christmas tree, the red plastic baseball bat that reads "Homerun to God", two bottles of contraband booze (supposedly a friend's?), picture frames, cow boy hat, rolled-up posters, pillows, blankets, towels, CDs, more pillows and several sealed cardboard boxes, some of them we were warned were fragile.  We nixed the large rocking chair and the green molded plastic IKEA chair.  Too much space for now.  Perhaps we would try again at Thanksgiving break.

Thanksgiving seems to be an eternity away, with nothing but phone calls and perhaps a brief college visit to sustain my need to go on mothering.   In spite of having a career and many interests, I find it hard to contemplate the end of motherhood as I have known it for twenty-one years. 

Emilio is a high-school senior.  If all goes well - or not well, depending on how I ponder the question - I will be an empty-nester next fall.  The prospect of that emptiness bothers me a great deal.

After we bid farewell to Isabel,  I returned home and busied myself with chores and the task of filling up the refrigerator with the food needed to sustain Emilio for a week.  I avoided my daughter's deserted bedroom until much later that night when, under the pretense of needing a snore-free room, I cuddled-up in her bed.  Like a mother cat searching for her kitten, I tried to find her smell in the pillows.

Table manners

 

Call it rigidity, homesickness or a trendy leaning toward slow food, but I insist on eating my meals at a table, with real plates, forks, knives and glasses.  No flimsy plastic-ware and absolutely no finger-foods.  My sweetheart and children do comply on most days but I've abandoned any hope of wooing my children's friends to the dining table.

My last attempt was four years ago, when I cooked a full five-course meal for my daughter's birhtday.  The half dozen of her friends who had joined the celebration sat very straight and very stiff throughout the whole dinner.  Half of them tried spoonfuls of the food.  The others hardly breathed.

- "Was it the food?" I asked my daughter a few days later.

- "The food was o.k.  They were just freaked out about having to sit at the table.  Kids my age never eat at a table except on Thanksgiving."

My sweetheart doesn't eat at the table either.  At his house, all meals are served in the living room.  I must choose between eating cross-legged on the couch with my plate balanced on a pillow or seated on the floor with my plate on the coffee table.  Neither option works for me; the pillow seems too far from my mouth and the coffee table too close.  After years of table-conditioning, my brain refuses to adapt to the happy-go-lucky American eating habits.

Worse, I get downright cranky and self-righteous.

- "How could they serve a Birthday dinner on paper-plates?" I will complain after a party.

or

- "Who's ever heard of eating soup standing up?"

Last Friday, my sweetheart invited me to dinner at Sonic.  We just didn't have time for a "real" dinner before going to the movie and needed to eat.  Since it was a semi-emergency, I agreed to munch on a half-dozen mozarella sticks while Stan worked his way through a Burger and fries.  I had to wipe my fingers at every bite but it was  fun to eat in the car for once.  My sweetheart was encouraged.

- "See," he said, launching a couple of tater-tots down his throat. "If I keep working on you, soon you'll be begging me to take you to McDonalds for one of those Big Macs with bacon." 

Right.  Soon.

Night watch

My two children are spending the summer at home.  Not that we actually see much of each other .

I do make a point of kissing them goodbye every morning before I leave for work.  Emilio never blinks.  Isabel might actually mumble a few words once in a while.  7:30 a.m. is an ungodly hour for them; practically the middle of their night.

They kiss me good night when they return home between 11:00 p.m. and 2:00 a.m. but I hardly ever remember any of their late night conversation.

- "What do you mean you are at the ball game?  I thought we were having dinner tonight."

- "I told you Ross's dad had tickets."

-"When did you tell me?"

- "Last night.  I climbed in your bed and talked to you for five minutes.  I told you about the movie I saw."

- "I talked back?"

- "You did.  You told me about the papers for me to go to Canada."

This does sound like the responsible mother I know I am.  I rack my brain for the memory of one of my children coming through the door at night.

- "Did I give you a hug?"

- "I did."

- "Oh!"

I feel guilty.  I should be one of those mothers who are able to stay up all night waiting by the front door in case of an emergency.  I should be able to remember those important late-night conversations and all the scheduling information.  Instead, I collapse into bed at 9:00 p.m. on weekdays and not much later on weekends, leaving it to fate, good luck, months of driving instructions and years of lecturing about drugs and alchohol to return my children safely to me every night.  So far so good.

Tramp stamp

I haven’t written much lately. I’ve been too busy with my new wonderful job. After eighteen years in Academia, I’m finding that I like the corporate world. I can’t wait to get to work every morning. One of my first projects has been to revamp the dress code policy for my new employer, a subject of great interest to my daughter.

- “I am including a clause recommending that people check with their supervisor about the appropriateness of displaying tattoos,” I explain at dinner.

- “You should never show your tattoos at work. At camp, we have to cover them with clothes or band-aids.”

I am always surprised when my children are more conservative than I am.

- “A bunch of young people of your generation have tattoos,” I remark.

- “Yes, but we know where to place them so they won’t show.”

- “No always. I’ve seen plenty of girls with small tattoos on their wrist or ankle.  Do you think we should ask them to wear pants and long-sleeves for the rest of their lives?”

- “They shouldn’t have gotten a tattoo in a place where it can be seen.”

- “My friend Sasha has a nice tattoo on her inner-wrist. She’s very professional.”

Shrug.

- “I think I’ll get a tattoo on my shoulder,” my daughter announces. “I’m thinking about getting the word ‘intense’ written across my back. What do you think?”

- “Do you really want to be intense for the rest of your life?”

- “I guess not.”

She grins.

- “How about a potato? I’ll always love potatoes.”

- “Okay. Let’s both get a tattoo,” I counter. “I’ve always wanted a small tattoo on my lower back. A nice Celtic design. What do you think?”

She chokes on her food.

- “On your lower back! That’s called a TRAMP STAMP! Seriously.  Mami!”

- “Who says it’s a tramp stamp?”

- “Everybody.”

- “Well…I think it might be nice.”

- “Mami.  Look at me.”

She motions for me to look her in the eyes from across the dining room table.

- “YOU are NOT getting a tramp stamp. You're not the kind of person who'd do well with a tramp stamp.  Trust me.”

She’s probably right. The amazing thing is that while I’ve been busy working, my children have sprouted into adult human beings with well-informed, balanced, mature opinions that I am having a hard time arguing with. I used to have the upper hand in all dinner conversations but my advantage has been eroding. I am not used to this re-balancing of power.

- “How about we go for ice-cream?”

- “For real?”

- “Yeah. Let’s go to Dairy Queen.”

- “Can I have a Sunday?”

- “Sure.”

Off we go. At least I can still offer food.  I’m feeling like a mother again.

Home remedy

My sweetheart is a natural-born healer. 

- Hey! What are you doing?

- Don’t move.

- It hurts!

- No it doesn’t. These are pressure points baby.

- You are pinching my toes with clothespins!

- It’s o.k.

- No, it’s not.

- Breathe.  It’s all in the mind.

We are sitting under my back porch. I have taken my shoes off in hope of a foot rub.   Big mistake. Stan reaches for another handful of the clothespins I keep around to dry the bedsheets outdoors. 

- Are you sure about this?

- Of course I’m sure. They say the pressure points on your feet directly affect your organs you know.

- Who are “they”?

- The shamans.

- What shamans? Who are your talking about: the Tibetans, the Mayas, the Chinese?

- Well you know…Stay still sweetie.

- It hurts.

- Breathe.

- I’m breathing! If I weren’t breathing I would have keeled over and died already.

- You need to relax. You’re tight as a drum.

- It’s hard to relax with clothespins on your toes. So, you didn’t answer, who are “they”?

- I told you…the healers.

- From where?

- Everywhere…the Orientals.

- Can you narrow that down for me?

- Why do you need to know?

- I’d like some scientific proof of this treatment, or at least some background information. I don’t think the Chinese use clothespins for acupuncture.

- Tust me: it's all the same.

My darling believes in the power of trust and faith. I demand critical reasoning. He believes there is a reason for everything. I argue there is a consequence to every action.

But I can be swayed. I can be talked into lending my toes to an experiement in home-shamanism because  I believe in the power of love and the temporary loss of reason that comes with it.  And I should.  Because the clothespins treatment does work wonders.  Try it yourself.  Your feet will feel wonderful.  Your entire being will fill with unbounded joy as soon as the last clothespin is removed from your toes.  Very cool.  Trust me.