Thirty Earth Years

It's been almost a year since I have sat down to write anything. I barely got Christmas Cards out this past year, so sitting down to write more than a paragraph, is a rather sizable accomplishment for me right about now. I don't seem to have the time, or the inclination, or the clarity of thought to do it, as always. But, you see, I have this friend. She draws me out. She knows when it's time for me to sit down and collect my thoughts, more importantly, my emotions and type them up. She always does it under the guise of: "I need a blog from you" as she just messaged me the other day. She's pretty cool.




This year has been particularly challenging for me, and I find myself saying this year after year. I have felt pieces of my old stone foundation start to crack, small little chunks chipping off, in my personal life, my professionally life, and with friendships. It's as if, what was, will never be again. There seems to be something about the forties (MY forties anyway), when you have your children in your twenties and thirties, that lends itself to an evolution of some sort. For me, it resembles a small awakening, of being more aware of the world around me and all it's immeasurable complexities, sadness, joys, fears, rewards. I (and perhaps others - I have a feeling you are out there) are probably more keenly aware of this because we are getting prepared to send our kids out into that world. That's my theory any way.




I just returned home from a long weekend in Connecticut and New York City. My son, my oldest, is currently at the tail end of auditioning for conservatory style acting programs at colleges throughout the northeast. There's been a lot of snow. ALOT. And though I don't mind it at all because I am a die hard New Englander and inherited my grandmothers stoic nature, I just chalk it up to being something that holds beauty, and not as troublesome for me as it is for some, especially when you really look at it and hold 'snow' up against things like world hunger.




However, there is something about being snowed in that causes most of us to hibernate, and I don't mean just being home bound more often. I find myself looking inward more frequently and being riddled with insecurities and questions and so far this winter has proven to be a rather important one in a process of transformation for me. It's the beginning of the actual act of separation that many of us will go through as we watch and feel our children pull away.




While laying in my bed reading (it was US magazine, don't judge) in the hotel in Hartford on the first night of our trip, I watched my son as he drifted off to sleep in the bed next to mine. He was exhausted and surrounded by the white fluffiness of a very cozy comforter with the window behind him revealing a dusky haze of an impending winter blast in the background. The trees looked black and violet and the sky looked baby blue, on a platform of white. It reminded me of some far away memory that I still can't put my finger on. Something angelic. He looked so peaceful. His perfectly shaped almond eyes brought me back to a much smaller version of my boy, when I used to check on him after the bedtime story and the tucking in ritual when he was little. In slow motion, I would carefully open his bedroom door, leaning up against the white colonial woodwork, the hallway light streaming in to break up the darkness and catching flecks of the bright yellow of Saturn's rings that I had painted on his bedroom wall. The softness in which my bundle of spirited energy would just lay there, snuggled in, made my heart melt, and I would kiss his forehead. As I lingered in the doorway at the sight of how auburn his hair was even in the dark, the frays of hair set aglow by his moon shaped night light, I would soak in the sight of him stationary and quiet, and would whisper to myself just how in awe I was at how much I loved that little boy.




He frazzled me at times, but what kid doesn't? He was always moving, always questioning. The week before, he had just challenged his kindergarten teacher because he refused to repeat a sentence in a Planet Project at the end of the year celebration, which they did on a stage with a microphone. He was supposed to say "Saturn has 8 distinct rings", which wouldn't suffice because he knew that Saturn had over 100 sub rings. Each child represented a planet in their "speech" and there was no way he was going to say something that wasn't true, or more importantly, slighting Saturn in his eyes in any way. Especially about Saturn. Saturn rules. I encouraged him to appeal to her in the nicest, most respectful way possible. After checking to make sure he was correct, his preschool teacher agreed that, indeed, Saturn had over 100 sub rings, and she changed it for him.




Saturn's rings.




Earlier that day in Connecticut, I sat in a parent information session at the University of Hartford's conservatory style acting program, The Hartt School, where the head of the department thanked the parents in the room for being brave. He explained that acting students were, in a way, trained as rigorously as Olympic athletes, just more intellectually and emotionally, then physically. His observation was that while an Olympic athlete will quickly grow out of their particular athletic ability, an actor will only grow into theirs. He spoke almost in a whisper and reminded us all just how important our support as parents was to our kids. He congratulated us and commended us for the fortitude. My eyes were not dry.




Later, I sat in a long hallway, while playing the perpetual waiting game during the actual auditions, with a mother I had just met from Philadelphia as she explained that it was so important for her daughter to have a Plan B. She tried everything she knew to try to talk her daughter out of going into Musical Theater. She seemed very uncomfortable with her daughter's career choice. She lamented that her daughter kept pushing back, explaining that she felt there was nothing else out there for her that would come close to measuring up. That this was it. All she wanted and aspired to was being on the stage. She loved and lived for it. Her mother was very nervous. Towards the end of our conversation, she asked me what my son's back up plan was. I explained, somewhat apologetically, as to not hurt her feelings, that my son does not have one. Because I and he, don't want him to use it.



Saturn has 8 distinct rings, but over 100 sub rings. Some say there may be over 1000 sub rings.


Throughout these past 18 years, we have talked about the age of 18 more than a few times. "When you are 18, and you are out of the house, sure you can get a tattoo." "Because we are responsible for you until you are 18...that's why." "When you are an adult, you can do what you want. It's your life. So you'll have to wait until you are 18."


It's his life. It always has been, but we were the keepers of it for a period of time, I guess. I want him to make his way, and go off to wherever he needs and wants to be. We've been practicing this for years. Why would I want my son to do something practical or safe, if he doesn't want to. If he fails, he learns one of life's big lessons, that I could not possible teach him: To go out there and try again. Pick yourself up and dust yourself off. Don't get stuck being something or someone you don't want to be. Find your way, kid. But remember, it's okay to come back. I, we, will always be here for you. It's been done this way for many, many years.


Saturn's rings are believed to be particles of an old moon that orbited the planet and got smashed apart in a collision about 50 million years ago.


I still tell my son when he's being arrogant, or that he has gunk hanging out of his nose and  I still ask him when the last time was that he washed those jeans.


An old moon, orbiting around a planet with a lot of rings that no one could ever possibly really ever count.


I am just another mother watching her son grow into a man, supporting and encouraging him to choose the life he wants to live, no matter how difficult that life may be. Because he gets to call the shots. It's his life.