I stood on the dusty road at Washington Farms and worked through my work Inbox on my phone. As each long yellow school bus pulled into the gate, I checked for my kid and his class and if it wasn’t them, I got back to work there in the dust and the sunshine. Because this is what you do when you have a busy job but your son really really really wants you to go on the field trip.
We had a fantastic time at the pumpkin patch–a hayride, bouncing on the trampoline, playing in the corn box, petting donkeys and bunnies, even learning from the farmer how pumpkins grow. Carlos and I giggled through it all together. I took selfies with the quiet girl and tied one boy’s dusty shoe and listened to a wide variety of opinions about corn and whether it was good or nah.
But when the clock struck noon, I told Carlos that I had to get back to work. “Noooooo! I want you to stay!” he howled. I pried myself from him and made the long, lonely, and guilty walk to the car. I sat in the quiet for a minute and had a little cry about how hard it is, balancing work and life and kids and responsibility.
It HURTS to be absent sometimes when my kid wants me present.
It hurt a little less when we all got home, him with his tiny pumpkin and a string of stories about all the fun he had after I left.
He was fine. I got a little better.
Then I forgot to ask him to help cook tacos. The meat was already browned (his favorite step) and the lettuce already rinsed (his second favorite step). I was being efficient again and forgot that this was something special my boy and I do together. As he says lately, “I like three things–cooking, clouds, and nukes.”
I apologized for the taco incident and we went on with the evening. I made time for clouds since the cooking was a wash.
In the half hour after bedtime, Vivi had come out of her room five separate times with questions or to track down a lost book or to get a cup of water or to or to or to too. I was pretty frazzled with it. Carlos wandered out into the den and plopped down on the sofa. “It’s after your bedtime,” I snipped.
“You mad at me?”
“No, I’m not mad but I am frustrated that you and your sister seem to be having some trouble with staying in bed tonight.”
He rubbed his eyes and I saw that he was crying. “I’m not mad–go back to bed.”
He did, but a moment later, G came out and told me, “He’s crying because he said he’s going to miss you when you go on your trip.”
Well, dammit. There I go being efficient and not making room for my kid. ARGH.
I went back to Carlos’ room and sat on the bed with him in the dark. He told me that he was sad about missing me while I was gone. I told him that I was sad about missing him too, but that I was also really excited about this adventure and I needed it. We came up with a plan for how I would text and call and leave him notes to read every day that I’m gone. His tears dried up and all was well again.
And then I went to my therapist the next day to unload it all on her couch.
She was a working mom too, back in the day, and is familiar with the feelings. But her kid is grown and healthy now, so she also has learned that it’s important to teach our kids to be resilient.
She asked me to think about how I had learned to be resilient.
What’s resilience? It’s the “capacity to recover quickly from difficulties.” Toughness. It’s the wisdom you acquire by going through challenges and coming out the other side, knowing that you are OK.
Our conversation reminded me of a really low moment in my life, after Richard died and I was alone in our house. Specifically, I was alone on the kitchen floor curled up in a ball of snot and rage. I felt so alone and so tired of thinking I was safe and loved only to find out that I was neither. I remember howling, “I am always going to be alone. I am never going to have anyone to rely on. It’s just me.” And then I snot-laughed because I had a flash of insight. “Well, if I had to pick one person to rely on for the rest of my life, I WOULD PICK ME. Because I never quit.” I got myself off the floor and went on with my life.
Yes, my heart aches when my boy says he will miss me, that he would rather be with me than without me. I feel the same way–but I haven’t apologized to him for going on this trip. Both of us will be learning how resilient we are. I’m challenging myself with the newness of a foreign land. He’s challenging himself with the newness of 13 days without a physical hug from Mama.
We’re going to be OK.
Well, my shuttle to the airport leaves in an hour. I’ve written this to keep myself from curling up in a ball on the kitchen floor because it was so hard to give him one last hug at school this morning and hear him say, “I love ya, Ashley. I’ll miss you.”
“Hey, she pushed me!”
Monday night, she pushed me out of a cable car. It was her idea to take a nighttime cable car trip to see the city lights in the first place. We got on the Powell Mason (or Powell Hyde? I dunno, she’s the one with the sense of direction) and rode up and over the hills of San Francisco. From one end of the line to the other. When the car was crowded, we stood inside the glassed compartment. But at the first chance, we got some seats out in the open air. Vivi kicked her feet against the side of the seat and stuck her boots out into the wind. I sat there next to her, ready to grab her by the collar in case of sudden stops, untoward jostling or…earthquake.
I would have been happy to walk along the wooden boardwalk under the giant sequoias, but Gay decided–in her flipflops–that we should go for a little hike. We went up to the top of the valley on the Canopy trail so we could look down from the tops of the giants. I never thought I would be teetering on the edge of a gorge filled with ancient redwoods, but my sister pushed me and there I was.
We had to leave before sunset to get the car back, but Gay was already ruminating. “Next time, we come PREPARED to hike! We’ll stay until sunset! We’ll…”
I couldn’t even BREATHE. She floored that little Kia and we shot straight up into the air. Both of us leaned forward instinctively, as if we could urge the car up that precarious angle. Gay had her face pressed so close to the windshield, I snorted, “You look like Aunt Eula!” That got us tickled.
