Blame Game

As the oldest of four girls, I heard the question, “Who did this?”, a lot. “Where did that come from?” ran a close second, but never knocked “Who did this?” out of first place.

The question, of course, always led to pointing fingers and defensive whines. The words “…but she…” were thrown around quite a bit. I’m not saying those fingers were usually pointed at me…but my mother would.

Fast forward lots of years. It’s the late 80’s. MTV still played music videos and John Bradshaw was the darling of public television. Mr. Bradshaw wrote a book called “Healing The Shame That Binds You”, among others. He was featured prominently during pledge week. At the time, I was hoarding quarters in hopes of collecting enough to buy a box of Hamburger Helper, but I often dreamed of pledging and, when I did, I determined to do the magnanimous thing. I’d tell them to keep their silly old umbrella.

Bradshaw fascinated me for a number of reasons. He was good looking for one. And he had a great voice; a voice a father would have if you had that kind of father. You know the kind; the kind whose lap was yours for the taking, the kind that listened, the kind that comforted.

No, I didn’t have that kind either.

The thing I remember most when thinking of John Bradshaw, besides his delicious shock of salt and pepper hair, is the mobile. That’s what sucked me in, really; it was a simple thing. It might even have been made from a clothes hanger. Family members, represented by shapes cut from shiny paper, dangled from it. Bradshaw used the mobile to demonstrate that instability in one family member threw everyone else off balance. With a flick of his finger, he’d send one paper doll spinning. The rest followed suit in a crazy chaotic dance that demonstrated it didn’t matter who jumped first; in the end they were all hopelessly tangled up in their own strings.

Everyone loves a good whodunit…Who was the last one here? Who took the last paper towel? Who left the seat up? Who spilled the tea? Who moved the remote control? Who left the window down? And the classic…who let the dogs out?

Our society’s obsession with blame is the main reason I no longer talk politics. It’s impossible to make a comment, no matter how innocuous, without someone borrowing from my sisters and I; “But, he…”, “But, she….”, “But, they…” And we all know what happens next.

Mom gets the switch.

She never seemed to notice, but I did. Nothing good ever came from getting a switch. Despite her admonitions to the contrary, there was always lots of crying and, afterwards, Mom was red-faced and sweaty. We didn’t stop doing what she didn’t want us to do, we just did it better, more quietly, and with a heightened sense of accomplishment.

As the rare liberal living and working in a red sea of Bible-based Republicans, I’ve kept my head down since the partial government shut-down. (Even typing those words feels ridiculous…but I digress.) You can hear better with your head down, and what I hear is a lot of blaming. The paper dolls are dancing, and everyone is so busy pointing out who jumped first that no one noticed Mom going for the switch.

Maybe Ken Fisher watched John Bradshaw too. Fisher is the chairman of the Fisher House Foundation. On Wednesday, Fisher House committed to providing death benefits and transportation to family members of soldiers killed in the line of duty. Ken Fisher didn’t ask “who”. He kept his fingers to himself and, instead of muddying the waters with feckless accusations; he provided a solution to a problem caused by lesser men with bigger titles and lots to lose.

You can learn more about Fisher House Foundation here: http://www.fisherhouse.org/

Photo credit: http://www.diabetesmine.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/09/pointing-finger.jpg

Getting Crazy

For the first time since my son died, I’ve been left alone for longer than it takes to visit the chiropractor or have a music lesson.

It was my choice. I could have tagged along but it costs so much to board the dogs, and then there are the chickens. With temperatures soaring above 100 degrees every day they need extra care. I’ve put ice in their waterer several times daily, fashioned a pool out of an over-sized plastic bowl, and managed to gather the eggs before they fried inside their shells.

I had all kinds of plans.

First and foremost, I thought to write. All that quiet stretched before me like a highway I could litter, uninterrupted, with words I wouldn’t forget while answering questions like, “Do you think I should get a Ford F150 or a Chevy truck? ” He’s 15, and that learner’s license burns a serious hole…

Malaise hit me on Friday afternoon, just before I left the office. I did what I always do, I ignored it. I bought dinner, I went shopping, and I baked four loaves of chocolate zucchini bread. I’d promised the boys they could take some on their trip. I’d also promised the kids next door they’d get a loaf out of the next batch. And, there’s that co-worker who greets me with hungrily expectant eyes every Monday morning.

Once the travelers were on their way, I was disappointed to walk inside the house and discover all the usual “stuff” needed doing. The kitchen was a wreck, the furniture needed polishing, and there was no way I wasn’t capitalizing on oven-like temperatures. I had laundry to do.

I’ve noticed this phenomenon before. For some reason, as soon as I’m left alone at home for any length of time, every imperfection is magnified a-thousand-fold; as though, suddenly it’s all mine, and I’m responsible, and if it’s needs fixing I need to fix it, before someone comes and sees it. I’m sure it all stems from the time when I was 22, and a new Mom, and my Mom came to visit; only I didn’t know she was coming. There’s only so much you can stuff under the couch cushions before its actual dimensions start to change…

By the time I finished housekeeping, it was 5 o’clock. The day was done and the chair, now that I had a chance to sit in it, was cozy.

This morning, malaise made another appearance. Only this time, I was alone. I didn’t have to ignore it. I could languish in it. I could baby it. I could sit and wonder why it came, and what it meant, and I could doze. So I did.

There was a point, during one of my treks to the henhouse, when I knew I could be crazy. Nuts, even. It was after I’d dumped the ice. The latch on the gate refused to slide back into place. The fact of my leopard-print pajamas became important somehow, as I wrestled with the handle; winning, at last. And, I knew it, absolutely. Were it not for all the reasons I have to be sane, I would most certainly be crazy.

It would be easy, really. I can tell, having considered it, that it’s just a slide, and not a very long one; not one of those really, really high ones that scorch the backs of your legs on your way down. It’s a short one, like the one attached to the swing set we had in the backyard when I was a kid. It got hot, too. But, it was so short, it didn’t matter.

And slides are easy. You just let go. You just stop trying. You slide.

My friend lost two sons. They died within a few years of each other. She’s never been the same since.

Now I know why.

From my new vantage point, white-knuckled at the top of the slide, I understand.

She let go.

Learner’s License

My 15-year old is learning to drive. Even as we walked into the DMV to get his learner’s license, I couldn’t imagine sitting in the passenger seat while he piloted my vehicle; my new vehicle, my favorite-car-in-the-whole-wide-world that, even after nine months, boasts bonafide “new car smell”. Just the thought of it made me all jumpy inside. So, I didn’t think of it.

I supplied Shane with a Georgia Driver’s Manual a couple of months before his 15^th birthday. He rifled the pages with his thumb, barely concealing his humor at the thought that he might actually READ the book. However, after pulling an all-nighter with his best friend who had tested several months before and therefore “knew what he was talking about”, Shane scored a 95 on the exam; a fact of which he apprised me even before flashing his paper license.

Though I hadn’t paid attention as we drove in, driving out I realized this particular branch of the DMV was situated at one end of an otherwise abandoned strip mall, meaning the only cars parked were the ones directly in front of the office. In the kind of fit of spontaneity I’m known for, I parked the car and motioned for Shane to change places with me. To his credit, and possibly because it’s not the first time his mother has had some kind of hare-brained notion that required his participation, he jumped out, ran around and slid underneath the wheel as though it were home.

I took the liberty of installing a few virtual stop signs along our route, just to give him practice, as we took several turns around the parking lot. Twice, a car piloted by a “real” driver took advantage of the landlord’s misfortune, by cutting across the painted lines on its way in or out. We both froze. Fortunately, Shane froze on the brake. I took this as a good sign.

We’ve been out several times since then. He’s still a little heavy on the gas when first starting out and corners are a bit tricky, but we did manage to traverse a rather scary intersection without incident on the way to the grocery and back. We took a drive with purpose. I think that’s a big step.

The guilt didn’t start until Monday.

It was a nagging thing. It kind of pulled at me, demanding attention. At stray times, throughout the day, Trey’s face swam into view along with an incident; a time when I felt inadequate, a situation I felt I’d mishandled. I managed to quash them usually. I ran the tape inside my head; the one that says “This is normal. Everyone does this. Don’t let it get you down.”. If I had a dime for every time I’ve heard THAT song…

But he kept coming. I remembered the time his father called him a “sissy”, the way he clutched at my leg through my skirt, and the feeling of desperation in knowing what a pitiful shield I made using only my hands. There were rides to school…rides necessitated by Trey’s bad behavior at the bus stop…that seemingly provided fertilizer for arguments he saved for just this opportunity. Eventually, I remembered he couldn’t argue if I didn’t participate. Sometimes, then, we talked.

There were visits with counselors, arguments with his step-dad, and a notebook filled with completed homework he’d never turned in.

These reels played alternately, randomly, for two days before I recognized the catalyst.

I didn’t teach Trey to drive.

The realization startled me at first. How could that be? Who could have taught him? How does such an important phase in a child’s life go unnoticed, unaccompanied by a parent…especially when there’s only one?

That afternoon, I received an email from a friend who always seems to know “when”. She reminded me she’d always listen, and I began writing. About halfway through, the missing pieces fell into place until the whole messy picture became clear and a new mantra began to play inside my head. “You were not a bad Mom. You were not a bad Mom. You were not a bad Mom.”

This afternoon, I received a note from Trey’s boss’s wife, Amy. Over the years, she’d grown very fond of him.

“The guys are here today working on Bo’s in ground trampoline. While they were eating lunch, Bo walked up to Mike and so sweetly asked, “Where’s Trey?” Out of the mouths of babes… YOU are NOT forgotten, our precious friend!!”

And, I’m reminded it’s not just me. This isn’t the first time that I’ve discovered, when I’m missing Trey more than usual, I’m not the only one. That knowledge doesn’t make me miss him any less. As a matter of fact, reading Amy’s note took me to a place I haven’t been in weeks. What it does do, though, is remind me he is loved, as am I.

Today, I am thankful for blessings who give you room to grow.

Daddy

Daddy was a large man whose crusty work-boots tracked red mud onto mother’s carpets.

He wore glasses…big ones…with thick black frames. And white t-shirts…

He played football in high school, but tennis courts paved his way to college.

When I was very young, he bowled.

By the time I graduated high school he had traded balls with holes for holes-in-one.

My mother called him “Johnny”, my Aunt calls him “Brother”, and my sisters and I call him “Daddy”. I was forty years old before I heard anyone else call him anything other than “Mister Howell”. Years later it still sounds strange, and just a little disrespectful, to hear anyone besides my mother call him “Johnny”.

Daddy liked to eat. As kids, he introduced us to souse meat and lox-n-bagels, but I drew the line at pickled pig’s feet. Time spent in Korea after Hiroshima expanded his pallet. If he was really, really good, Mom would scramble last night’s fried fish into his eggs.

These days he prefers his fish raw, but little else has changed. Daddy still loves to eat. He finds a way to fit three meals in between the hours of 8 am and 4 pm every day, arriving back at his condominium-by-the-sea before most vacationers have even considered making reservations.

Daddy said things…like, “Don’t ever forget who you are! You’re a Howell!” and “No one is better than you are!”. The manner in which he spoke discouraged questions while imparting pride.

He also said, “Your thighs are big-around as my waist!”, and “You need to leave that boy alone. He’s a queer!”, and “Blacks just naturally run faster than whites. It comes from being chased through the jungle by cheetahs.”

A few years ago, he read every book Carlos Castaneda ever wrote.

Last weekend he took great delight in expounding on his latest theory on consciousness. “Our brains are like radio receivers…”

As a kid, it wasn’t Christmas until Daddy came home. Every Christmas Eve, sometime after 6 and before 9, he stumbled across the threshold, over-sized shopping bags in tow. Mother’s mouth set into a sharp line, as her hands moved ever faster over the food she was preparing for tomorrow’s dinner.

“Put these things under the tree!”, he slurred. Professionally wrapped packages hiding expensive perfume, and too-red, too-small, lacy lingerie were tossed, haphazardly, under the tree. Daddy was home! We could open presents!

It’s still not Christmas until Daddy arrives…only Mom isn’t in the kitchen…and it’s the Sunday before Christmas…and my sister dresses her Dachshunds in elf costumes…and sometimes we watch football.

Sunday is Father’s Day.

Just as we have for the last five Father’s Days, we’ll meet at The Varsity. Daddy will order two all-the-way-dogs, rings, and a coke. At least three of us will vie for the honor of paying his bill. Odds are, my sister will do it. We’ll find four or five unoccupied tables and we’ll push them together. We’ll create our space, just as several other families have done before us. We’ll eat, we’ll talk, we’ll laugh. I’ll take pictures despite my sisters’ protestations. Daddy will open presents, and we’ll go home.

I’ll leave, hoping we can do it again, next year.

Boy Wearing Light-up Sneakers

He was tall…quite tall. And thin; the kind of thin that appeared to hide-behind rather than be covered-by the t-shirt that fell like a drape from his rack of shoulders. The shirt was nearly colorless. His pants were faded as well. Both had seen better days, probably on the back of an older brother or a cousin who would see him wearing clothes that used to decorate the floor of his bedroom, and never make the connection.

He stood behind his father who held his brother while talking to the waiter about a table. His eyes watched the floor, rising only occasionally to glance at his father’s face as though gauging his mood. He knew how to stay out of the way, but he also knew that what was out of the way now might not be out of the way in just a minute. He kept track. And, when his father’s free hand swung in his direction while motioning towards a larger table, he took two steps to his left.

That’s when I saw them…light-up sneakers…the kind I hadn’t seen since my boys wore them twenty-odd years ago. The shoes themselves were black and would, had the boy stood still, gone unnoticed. His steps though, set off a pattern of multi-colored lights that chased themselves around the circumference of his school-aged foot, sending shards of longing deep into my chest.

I will never again be the mother of a boy wearing light-up sneakers.

Unchosen

You don’t get many choices at birth. Nobody asks what you want to be. Take birth order, for example. I was the first-born of four girls. Given what I now know, I might have chosen to be born last, but nobody asked me. You don’t get to choose gender either, or hair color, or shoe size. Siblings, it seems, are left to chance. If you happen to click, that’s great! If not, you’re stuck with them, like them or not.

One of the best…maybe even THE best thing about aging is that the older you get the more choices you have. By the time you become an adult, you get to choose most things. You choose a career. You choose your lifestyle. Heck, you can even choose your hair color! By the time you get to be my age you might have chosen several different hair colors!

No one ever chooses to be the mother of a dead child.

And yet, here I am. It’s as though life started, for me, all over again on February 26^th just before 11 pm. All the other choices I’ve made take a back seat to the one no one would make, ever. Decades of living life on my own terms ended with a single gunshot, because no matter what else happens from here on out, I am the mother of a dead child.

I can sell my house and buy that loft I’ve had my eye on…the one downtown, right in the middle of everything. And, I’ll still be the mother of a dead child.

I can quit my job in order to pursue a life-long dream. And, I’ll still be the mother of a dead child.

I can learn a foreign language, lose 20 pounds, and even dye my hair the only color I’ve never tried. Then I’ll be the raven-haired mother of a dead child.

At a time in my life when who I am should be up to me, it’s not. Because, nothing I am matters as much as what I’ve lost.

30 Days of Gratitude – Day 2 – My Job

Mitchell Steiner wore his jet black hair combed straight back off his swarthy-skinned face. His coal-colored eyes either danced or snapped, depending on his mood. His nose was aquiline. His mouth never stopped moving. Mitch was a talker, as in smooth talker, as in car salesman, or motivational speaker, though he became neither. Mitch claimed his destiny early on. He was headed for a career in medicine. At the age of fifteen, a stint in the Explorer Scouts was, for him, a logical move in that direction. For me, it was a way to be closer to Mitch. I had no idea my destiny, too, was being set.

My father didn’t suggest I go into nursing, he insisted. He had a litany of reasons to support his position; a litany he cited, ad infinitum, whenever the topic was broached. I, on the other hand, had never even considered it. As soon as I could stand, I did so in front of a pint-sized chalk board that turned round and round in its aluminum stand; a feature I found most irritating, as a glimpse at the magnetized side of the board, with its cacophony of many-colored plastic letters, only served to remind me that it wasn’t a real chalk board in a real classroom, and I wasn’t a real teacher.

Sometime during my mid-twenties, possibly between baby number one and baby number two, it became evident to my father that my career in nursing would never come to full fruition.

“I can’t believe you’re just going to throw it all away! You’ve wasted so much time!”

“I don’t see it that way.”, I answered him. “I’ve gained knowledge I’ll always have, and use. It wasn’t a waste. I just never wanted to be a nurse.”

“What do you mean you didn’t want to be a nurse? What about all that time you spent in Explorer Scouts?”

I traded my scrubs for a “burp rag”, which is Southern for the cloth diaper worn over one shoulder from the time a baby is born, until she takes her meals with the rest of the family, preferably in a high chair that has been sat upon a large piece of plastic meant to catch the food that missed her intended mark, her brother’s faces.

Mothering was a fine career choice, and I was fortunate to be able to do just that while my kids were very young. When I did return to the workforce outside my plastic-lined domicile, I managed my hours in such a way as to avoid using childcare. I worked during the day. My husband worked at night. One of the two of us always cared for our children. I did it alone, but my husband, apparently, needed help. His girlfriend often visited on her lunch hour bearing pizza from the pizzeria she managed. I found her generosity maternal and oddly comforting. There’s still a very small, warm place in my heart for her.

Ricky and I signed divorce papers on New Year’s Eve.

Twenty years later, Ricky is deceased, three of my four children have homes of their own, and I work in a business my father helped to get off the ground . I started part-time during a soon aborted attempt at beefing up my nursing degree. I should have known better. It wasn’t my idea in the first place, remember?

I used to say, when asked about my job, that I was paid way too much money to do a job a chimpanzee could do. I don’t say that anymore. The job hasn’t changed. My duties are still well within the primate learning curve. What’s changed is my compensation. As the first rocks began to fall off our soon to crumble national economy, my employers explained their decision to switch me from a salaried to an hourly employee as a form of simplification. Benefits, too, proved complicated. I haven’t had a paid vacation, holiday, or sick day in several years. My 401K was frozen.

But I get a paycheck and, even though ten percent less, my earnings afford my son luxuries such as organized sports, music lessons, an IPOD, an Android, and a PS3. I have a place to go every day and a job to do, which is more than many people have today.

I’m not doing what I thought I would do, but maybe that’s because I didn’t set my sights high enough. One look at my son and I know I have more than enough, and there’s still time for chalkboards in my future.

Homecoming

“Honey, it’s at least a month away. It’s too early to ask her. A million things could happen between now and then.”

I felt an overwhelming urge to reach out and pull the words back in before my son heard them. It wouldn’t matter. He wouldn’t…no, couldn’t understand.

“Yeah, but if I wait, someone else will ask her.”

And that’s when, for the first time in a very long time, I began worrying about Homecoming.

You might think “worry” an unusual choice of word. If so, you probably had a date. You probably went to all four Homecoming dances with a date or one of those groups of kids who exude wholesomeness via cohesiveness.

I did neither. Homecoming, for at least the first couple of years of high school, was something to get through. It marked a period of avoidance because it wasn’t just about a dance. It was all of the things leading up to the dance. It was decorating committees, and “Wear Your Favorite T-Shirt Day”, and hallways covered in poster-boards advertising candidates for Queen and King, and of course, “Who are you going with?” For two years I spent those two weeks with my head down, mostly inside my house.

My son likes to talk to me while I’m online. Rolling around the room on a big, blue exercise ball, he is like an over-sized gerbil that chatters.

“Here’s what happened.”, he starts as though the previous conversation just ended. “I asked Molly and she said “No”. You know she really likes me and everything but she probably won’t go and if she does go she’s just gonna go with some friends, you know?”

“Uh-huh.”

“So then John asked me if he could ask her and I told him, “Go ahead, but she’s not gonna go and if she does go she’s just gonna go with some friends.”, right?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And so then he asks her and Molly says “Yes” because John has a six-pack.”

“Huh?”

“A six-pack. Girls like guys with six-packs. John has a six pack.”

I started to ask how Molly, or anyone else for that matter, knew John had a six-pack but decided the answer would probably take our conversation in a whole different direction…a topic for another day, perhaps.

“Well, that wasn’t very nice, was it?”, was all I could think to say.

“No…well, I don’t care.”, he answered, rolling towards the closet.

“You could go with a group.”, I suggested as a picture of my sister’s “group” flashed into my head. My sister went everywhere with the “group”. Even as a memory they exuded cleanliness. “Or you could go alone. Lots of people will go alone, you’ll see.”

He rolled out of sight. “I’ll think about it.”, he said from somewhere behind me.

When Homecoming week arrived, I took heart in my son’s participation in “Wear Your Favorite T-shirt Day”. It didn’t matter that he might have worn it anyway. At least he was engaged. But when Tuesday came and went without any declaration regarding attending the dance, I couldn’t help myself.

“So? Are you going?” I was a talking bundle of laundry, floating down the hall on its way towards the laundry room.

“Nah…I’m not going.” His bedroom door, closing behind him, provided punctuation.

An argument ensued as I continued my trek towards the washer.

“He should go.”, I thought. “He’ll be sorry he missed out. I hope he’s not isolating himself.”

“You can’t say anything.”, I thought. “Talking about it makes it a big deal. It’s his decision.”

I said nothing, and the day of the dance became just another Saturday.

I didn’t see the women until one of them spoke, waking me from the sleep walk that had propelled me from my car to the inside of the market. They were “Football Moms”, like me. Our sons had been teammates for years, and now they were freshmen in high school.

And it was Homecoming Saturday.

“Can you believe I still haven’t found him a suit?” The mother of “John Of The Legendary Six-Pack” spoke.

“Aren’t these things a little less formal now? “, I asked, lightly. “He could wear a shirt and tie.”

“What about Shane? Is Shane wearing a suit?”

Did I imagine her eyes widening just a bit, as though anxious for an answer?

“Shane’s not going.”, I kept it light. “You know, he asked Molly before John did.”

Was that a flush of color on her freckled cheeks?

“Yeah…”

She congratulated her son with a smile he wouldn’t see.

The exchange sparked anxiety that would stay with me for most of the day. Several times over the course of the afternoon I had to force myself not to find Shane and ask him one more time, “Are you sure you don’t want to go?” There had been talk of an after-party. All his friends would be there. I knew because, earlier in the day, I’d surveyed him about their plans.

But I didn’t. I didn’t ask him.

On Sunday, the day after Homecoming, we went for a haircut. As I drove, it occurred to me we wouldn’t have to wait long since all the other boys would have had haircuts the previous weekend, in preparation for the dance.

“I’m really glad I didn’t go to that party, Mom.” Shane spoke into the passenger side window.

“Really? Why?”

It seemed things had gotten ugly between several of the boys. One of them left early.

“What about his date?”, I asked.

“He went with Vicky.”, he groaned. An image of a diminutive fifth-grader with manicured nails and perfectly placed highlights came to mind. “Vicky’s a slut. Everyone knows that.”

Despite his confirmation of my earlier gut reaction, I suggested he find another way to describe the girl.

“That’s why I didn’t want to go, Mom!” He turned to face me, pummeling me with the full force of words that left him in a kind of angry whine. “They all wanted me to go with Amy, Vicky’s friend. And she’s just like her. I didn’t want to do that. I didn’t want to put myself in a situation I don’t know how to handle.”

Overwhelmed, I remained silent.

“Maybe I’m weird…but I don’t want it to be like that. When I have sex, I want it to be with someone I at least like, you know?”

I wanted to stop the car. I wanted to stop the car and scoop him up in my arms the way I always did when he faced uncertainty.

But I didn’t.

“You’re not weird.”, I said in measured tones. “You’re not weird, you’re smart. You made a good decision.”

I pulled into a parking space next to a motorcycle that had the Batman insignia on the engine cover.

“Good! Kevin’s here!” Shane bounced out of the car and placed his hand on his favorite stylist’s bike.

He stood straight. There was a quickness in his eyes. He smiled.

Homecoming, indeed.

To Bake, Or Not to Bake

So, apparently, The Rapture is scheduled to take place tomorrow, May 21^st. Or October 21^st. Or, possibly some time in between. I guess that’s why, though he announced a date, Reverend Camping left us guessing as to time.

And, that’s unfortunate.

You see, it’s clean-up day at the high school tomorrow. All football players and their parents are expected to attend. I suppose we could blow it off. I mean, it’s not as though they’ll be taking attendance, right? But there’s this feeling that if you don’t show up, the coach will notice. You’d be passing up an opportunity for face time, a chance to make an impression so indelible as to create a presence he won’t be able to ignore while fine-tuning the starting line-up. Yes, there is the perception that a day like tomorrow could make or break a kid’s high school football career, rapture notwithstanding.

I spoke with my grandson yesterday. He finished the conversation the same way he always does.

“When am I coming to your house, Nonni?

Had Reverend Camping seen fit to settle on a time, I might have planned a short visit. I could have arranged a sort of Bon Voyage party, just in case. I mean, granted, Elijah probably hasn’t been born again, but that could be because it hasn’t been an awfully long time since he was born the first time. Surely the selection committee wouldn’t hold that against him, right?

My son’s birthday is Monday, and he really, really wants to be fourteen. After all, he’s had a whole year to plan. In anticipation of the event, I purchased a pretty fancy guitar. It’d be a shame if he never got to play it, but I could probably get my money back. There are sure to be plenty of guitar players left behind…

And, of course, a pending rapture calls into question the need for cake. To bake, or not to bake? The cake my son has requested is, when complete, three layers of decadent gooey goodness. The ingredients aren’t cheap and preparation takes some time; time possibly better spent on “making arrangements”, if you catch my drift…

On the way to dinner tonight, my son gave a lecture on rapture. His knowledge was impressive considering his formal religious education is spotty, at best.

“The whole thing is bogus, Mom. I mean, anybody who reads the Bible knows that even predicting the rapture is a sin! Nobody’s supposed to know when that’s going to happen!”

This is the point at which I realized my son has been receiving Bible lessons from someone other than me. We’ve discussed God, rehashed stories, investigated traditions, and read many of the Psalms. I love the Psalms. David is among my favorite poets. But we only discussed Rapture once. I remember we were watching VH1….

>Shoes, Shopping, and Shame

My grandson can’t tie his shoes.

You might imagine a boy of three or four, his brow knit in Pre-K concentration. The harder he tries, the more his chubby fingers become entangled in the laces.

No. Elijah is seven. He’s in the second grade. He’s among the brightest children in the second grade.

But he can’t tie his shoes.

He doesn’t like shoes. He sheds them at every opportunity, necessitating frantic hunting expeditions before he can play outside, or accompany me to the market, or help with walking the dogs. He finds them, though. The speed with which he finds them is usually dictated by his interest in the reason for wearing them, but he always finds them.

What he doesn’t find is socks. I don’t mean to suggest he searches for socks, because he doesn’t. It seems he holds socks in even lower esteem than he does shoes.

It would be his obvious disdain for socks, in fact, that led to the purchase of new shoes which he then had to tie and couldn’t, but I’m getting ahead of myself….

High school football is a big deal in Georgia. In fact, when compared to professional football, there’s very little difference in terms of fanfare, music, noise, face-paint, dancing mascots, and other related tomfoolery that a seven year old might find entertaining. Elijah had never been. That and the fact that, at thirteen, my son is sure that missing even one game would be instant social suicide made choosing Friday night’s entertainment a no-brainer.

I exchanged pleasantries with the parent manning the gate as he halved our tickets. My son’s hand barely grazed mine as he grabbed his share, darting off in the direction of a group of boys that appeared cloned, from their unruly mop-tops right down to their khaki cargos. Elijah and I picked our way through knees and feet to gain seats on the fifty yard line.

The game didn’t hold my interest; our team is two and five and they play like it. Instead, I watched the girls sitting next to me. I decided that the one with long blonde hair was much too young for the skin-tight hip huggers she wore under her cheerleader’s vest. Attempting to get an answer to the question, “What kind of mother lets her daughter walk around like that?”, I craned my neck in an effort to see further down the bleacher.

That’s when I smelled it.

I knew right away what it was. And there was no question as to the source.

“Elijah?”

“Yes?” Bent in half, he shooed his shoes under the seat.

“Did you take your shoes off?”

“Yes.” Sitting up now, he spoke quietly while instinctually covering his shoes with his bare feet.

“We don’t do that. We don’t take our shoes off at football games.”

I watched as he hurried to replace them. The laces had been cut and knotted, making them slip-ons. They looked like they’d been slipped on a lot.

The next day, at the department store, I grabbed a package of socks before heading for the shoes. I slid sneakers over his freshly socked feet, tied them, and pinched the toes the same way my mother always pinched mine. Hiding the others inside the box the new ones came in, we headed out to find more things to buy.

Minutes later, he whizzed by me. One shoe had come untied.

“Tie your shoe, Elijah.”

I walked a few paces before stopping to read the label on a jar of protein shake mix. The air around me moved as he whizzed by me again. At the meat counter, I waited my turn in front of the steaks. Seems lots of us were planning to cook out. Elijah squirmed around one corner of the refrigerated case, dragging one shoelace behind him.

“Tie your shoe, Elijah.”

“I did!”

“It’s untied. Tie it again.”

Pouting, he plopped to the floor. I watched him make shoelace bunny ears, then everything fell apart. He started again. One bunny ear, two bunny ears, and a mess. And, again. One bunny ear, two bunny ears, and something resembling an attempt at a bow that came unraveled as soon as he made a move to stand. I cursed silently at the memory of knotted laces and bent to help.

I’m not one of THOSE Moms. I don’t give my daughter parenting advice unless she asks for it. And I can count the times she’s asked for it on one hand.

This was different.

On Sunday, I passed Elijah off to his parents with a kiss to his begrudging cheek. My grandson did not inherit my penchant for “kissy face”.

Ten minutes into the drive home, I dialed my daughter’s cell phone.

“Did you know Elijah can’t tie his shoes?” Either the question or my complete lack of pleasantry surprised her. It took her some seconds to answer.

“I saw you bought new ones.”

“Well, I was going to buy laces. One of them was broken. But then he took them off. He doesn’t wear socks, you know…”

“I know…”

“It’s the knots. Someone is tying knots in his laces. He’s forgotten how to tie. This isn’t good.”

“I know. I’ve asked him to stop.” “Him” is always her husband, my son-in-law.

“Do I need to ask him? Because, I will. I’ll ask him to stop.”

I hadn’t used that tone with her since she was a teenager, a teenager who’d held so much promise, a teenager who’d seemingly lost her mind, the answer to my mother’s twisted mantra, “You’ll get yours! I hope you have a daughter just like you!”

She got there so quickly. In that moment of separation, that space of time during which I could speak and also watch in horror as the words left my lips, my mother was there. She lives in my snarl.

“No, Mama…” My daughter’s voice was tired, because she’s not like me. And most of the time, I remember, most of the time that’s okay.

It’s just sometimes….