Dropping Him Off at College; or What New Torture Hath Hell Wrought For Me Now

I didn't even ask Teenager #1 if I could take a picture of him in his new dorm room, or in front of a significant University signpost to herald his new era. To use one of his most recent delightful turn of phrases-he doesn't fuck with that. Dropping my son off at college was alternately fine and horrid. He was excited and terrified, curious and wary, grateful and accusatory. Just like every other college freshman; united in their fear of the unknown, unique in their particular brand and practice of "what the fuck happens now."

So I spent a good deal of the day engaging my mother child translator, furiously interpreting such gems as:

"Why would you put that there?"
"Why do I have all these papers?"
"You didn't throw away any of my papers did you?"
"Why didn't you pack any hats?"
"I don't know where my schedule is."
"I can do that myself."
"Can you help me please, I don't know why you're just standing there."

I don't do yoga, but you'd never guess that from my constant employment of deep breathing that day. And with each new gem of an overreaction Teenage #1 was making it easier and easier for me to leave.

As I returned from making a last run to Walmart for a shower caddy before I hit the road, I got the text "I'm starving, can we get some food." At that point I had recorded over 15,000 steps, I had sweat through every article of clothing twice, I was exhausted beyond reason and I couldn't think of anything I wanted to do less than sit at a table with he who must not be named as he ate a tuna club and burped without remorse. So I yoga-breathed again, and read what the text really said. "Don't go."

As the moment for me to leave drew nearer, his panic became clearer. "I don't know what I'm even doing here. What am I supposed to do when you leave? I don't know how to get anywhere?"(insert expletives of your choosing for a more realistic reenactment). It didn't matter what I said. No words existed to comfort him, none that he could hear. There was no hug. No chance to share last nuggets of advice or reassurances of love and support. He simply turned to his dorm and said "Okay, Bye, I'm gonna go sit alone in my room now."

I love many things about Teenager #1. One of the things I admire most is his inability to be inauthentic. There was no picture perfect moment of proud mother and potential filled offspring embracing on the brink of the next step, because he couldn't put that mask on. In that moment he was scared and he was pissed; and in that final turning away, and in the angry calls and texts of the following 30 minutes, he was not saying "fuck you for doing this to me," he was asking "is everything going to be alright?"

And my answer is this: I don't know.

Ultimately, yes, you have always had and will always have a baseline of alright because you have us and others who get you and love you. But you are going to travel every axis of that baseline from brilliant aha's to slimy-sucky-couldn't-possibly-get-any-worse-and-then-it-does days. Your resolve will be tested again and again. I am not worried about you getting back up when you are down. I've seen you do that with more courage than I could muster at your age. I'm worried you won't let yourself enjoy the ups for fear of the downs. 

You want to know if everything will be alright, and the best answer I can give you is: not always; but it will be a lot alright-er if you can enjoy the achievement of the ups. You are capable of alright, and each time you figure out how to use the washing machine, and find the registrar's office and remember the hours the dining hall is open, you will begin to realize that you are worth alright.

There was no way I could say that in that moment of goodbye because he wouldn't be able to hear it. There's no way I could say it now, because he is 18 and already knows everything. But I knew he was beginning to live it when I woke up the next morning to this text:

"My xbox controller is getting greasy."

Translation:

"I'm ok...for now."

Dishwasher Slo-Mo

Husband and I took our dog to the beach for the first time this past weekend. We, of course, documented the event excessively, creating archival footage that will, most likely, forever remain un-downloaded and unprinted. Since I left my glasses in the car, yet another sign that I am following the middle aged cliche trajectory, I assumed I was scrolling to the correct format of video as my dog enjoyed the beach. Once I got reacquainted with said glasses and reviewed the prolific documentation of a precious trip to the beach, I laughed heartily at my mistake of hitting the slo-mo option for an empirically mundane moment. The transformation was irrefutable, however, as the mundane became the magnificently significant because of the heightening reality of slo-mo.

I believe it was The Six Million Dollar Man and the Bionic Woman that first taught me that slowing down means something important is happening, that super powers are being unleashed and that attention must be paid. It is an unspoken pavlovian contract that we are powerless in front of. Go ahead and watch the opening scene of Chariots of Fire, or the moment when Patrick Swayze jumps off the stage at the end of Dirty Dancing, or almost any boxing movie. Slo-mo magnifies a moment, suspends it in time and we feel awe in one of its many facets.

Which leads me to the only next logical thought, how do I get more slo-mo in my life. I want the involuntary nervous system to evolve an automatic response to recognize significance and flip me into slo-mo at appropriate times during the day. This would, of course come with a fitting soundtrack to underline the moment. And, not to be too picky, but I don't need it to highlight obvious significance like weddings, births, graduations and taking cinnamon rolls out of the oven; I need it to mark the unrecognized significance of the everyday. For example

• Doing the dishes before you go to bed instead of leaving them until the morning.
• Seeing the dishes as you walk up stairs to bed, pausing, and deciding to continue walking upstairs.
• Getting out of the car for your third trip to the grocery store in the same day because you keep forgetting the milk.
• Changing that diaper and getting it into the diaper genie on the first throw.
• As it starts to rain, reaching in your bag, pulling out and engaging your umbrella with the seamless grace of a ninja.
• Cleaning up the last of your five year old's vomit on the threshold of the bathroom while holding back your own sympathy vomit.
• Doing the math, by long hand, to work out the when and how much of the month's bills so the statement at the end of the month is more than zero.
• Cracking the door of your teenager's door at night, after ignoring the dishes, to check on them still to make sure they are breathing, because, yesssss, they are always your babies.
• Finally caving and changing the toilet paper roll because everyone refuses to learn the unspoken lesson you have laid before them.

You get the picture.

Why magnify these moments? Because it is all the small moments that make the grand ones possible. It is because most of us lead small un-cinematic lives that could lead to George Bailey on the bridge doubt of impact. Magnify these moments because the courage of another day beating down cynicism by loading the dishwasher, and picking up Teenager #2 from rehearsal, and texting Teenager #1 to tell us what his plans are for the night, and rewarding yourself with an episode of "Life in Pieces" on CBS (that's right, not some trendy anti-hero binge-worthy Netflix series); the courage to take on the small moments that make a life work are significant and perpetually unheralded by the very us that all too often resent and mock them.

So here's to slo-mo-ing the significance of everyday efforts and to recognizing the cumulative impact each lego of a moment has on constructing a life.

And now, for your viewing pleasure: