May 9, 2010 Mother’s Day
So many times I marvel at how with all the knowledge and information clogging our minds, so many experiences are left for each of us to discover on our own. I wonder if I’d lived closely with my extended multi-generational family if I would still be so clueless, or utterly shocked with awe and wonder, laughter, and sometimes with agony.
For instance:
The thrill of sleeping with a naked man, or the comfort of waking up pretzled with a body that fit mine so perfectly.
The indescribable joy of carrying a child in my womb and of holding her/him at my breast. I’d heard plenty about other maladies and about how difficult and demanding children are. So I was blown away at the joy of being a little girl’s mother and then a little boy’s mommy. How beautiful and perfect they were.
The searing agony of your newborn’s screams during his circumcision, or watching a physician wound your child while you hold her down for injections.
No one told me that the parenting of our own children season would turbo past in a blur, leaving us to watch replays of other children and parents for the rest of our lives.
I didn’t know that we would be invisible to young parents, held in suspicion if we spoke to a baby in an airport or asked to help hold a squirming child during a parade or church service.
God seems to think we should still be around young families, and with a secret wink gifted me today with a little guy about age 3 who has rhythm coursing through his veins. He drummed in the air perfectly in time. After the music he wanted to go to Sunday School. His young parents went and got him in time for the closing set of worship songs. I encouraged him by drumming in the air too, and tapping rhythms on my thighs whenever he looked back over his daddy’s shoulder.
There was my flashback, our Spenc as a little boy, while right there on the stage was my grown son, my dream come true. I thought of The Time Traveler’s Wife. Surely we live outside of time. The past is not just the past. It is now and the future too.
We tried to mention to the parents of the little drummer boy how much we enjoyed their little guy, how solidly he’s got the gift of rhythm. They smiled politely, but didn’t want any of the interaction, they were on their phones, in a rush. They didn’t care that it was our son on stage who played for them, our son who I’d held on my hip in church, who we’d started out on African drums, and then bought a full drum set when he could barely reach the bass petal. Didn’t care one ounce about resources or tips for raising a brilliant drummer in this valley. Our profound moment didn’t matter to them. They liked the music well enough, “It was awesome,” only because their three-year old liked it.
***
Later that day, I sat in the car outside the Holiday gas station while James ran in for a newspaper. Beside us was parked a van with the windows rolled down where several young teens and pre-teens sat fussing and jostling about while waiting for their dad.
The guy steps out of the store with some sodas and a bag of snacks for the road, walks over to the driver’s side of the van and fumbles for his keys. I hear from inside the vehicle, “Dad, don’t freak out.” I smile wondering how many times have I heard that exact directive from my teenage son.
“I’m not freaking out,” the dad says. I cannot hear what is going on that he shouldn’t get upset about because just then a young girl in the back seat yells, “Daddy, tell Kate to put her shoes back on. Her feet wreak and I’m about to throw up!”
“Open another window back there,” He says with a note of exhaustion, “Kate put your shoes back on.”
If that dad would have looked over at me he might have wondered why I was laughing and crying at the same time.
No one ever told me this.