Advent

I text, “I’m heading to the grocery store.  Need anything?”  I have hopes he will say something like, “Yes, can you bring me some shampoo and sit around and talk for a while?  I’d love your advice on a few things!”  Of course, this is not the response at all, instead it’s “No, I’m okay thanks.”  I’m a little disappointed, but not surprised.  This is my 18 year-old, now living on his own with a roommate in a little old house a few miles away from my place, a place by the way, which is feeling less and less like home by the minute. He’s been gone a week.

Most families, whatever their shape, size or composition, will eventually go through this transformation.  It’s a bit like death, in that it’s pretty unavoidable.  Parents raise children to grow into independent adults who not only survive, but thrive, in the outside world.  As a parent, I have a list of boxes I am hell-bent on checking before I can unequivocally say my job is done here, and my children are ready, by my standards, for this passage.  I want to exceed expectations in this area, and regretfully, I feel like I am barely meeting them.

 

There is some solace, though, when I think about my own experience.  When I left the family homestead the ink was barely dry on my college diploma. My face still damp from the tears I wept after accepting a pittance of $12,500 a year in exchange for full-time employment in my area of study, I sputtered off, having robbed my siblings of the 1975 Cutlass Supreme we all shared, which was known by the way, to die on very cold mornings at the stoplight at Burlington Avenue and Route 53.  I possessed little more than the values my parents instilled in me and a fierce, independent spirit.  I rented an apartment to be “closer to work” in a seedy section of Villa Park, which I discovered decades later to be a hotbed of drug trafficking. (Don’t tell my dad.) I’m quite sure my parents thought me to be insane, and lost more than a few nights of sleep.

I sweat in that apartment, sleeping on the living room floor in front of the window air conditioning unit when temperatures soared in May and never dropped.  I covered the couch in a big blanket to hide the worn upholstery. I washed my clothes in a dank laundry room in the basement. I rolled changed when I couldn’t quite make it to payday. While my standard of living sank several notches, the place was all mine.  I explored the used book store down the street.  I shopped at the grocery store and chose my own food. I could do whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted.  It was heaven.

The odd thing is I don’t remember worrying.  Worrying came later in life, after my people arrived and I had dependents who needed me and expected me to take care of them.  Maybe I didn’t need to worry at the time because my parents were doing the worrying for me? 

What I forget sometimes is this stage of life is a passage.  It’s not about having a certain amount of money saved up in the bank, having a specific job or title, having a partner to marry.  There is no right age to venture out, no boxes to check, no stamp of approval for readiness.  You just do it.  You take a leap of faith, you step out on your own and you learn as you go.

I broke my lease at that Villa Park dive before the year was up, on to my next outlandish adventure in San Diego with my boyfriend.  We sat in lawn chairs in the living room, shared a one-car garage.  We rolled change.  I learned how to drive a 5-speed and became a master at parallel parking on the street in front of our townhouse.  We could see a little sliver of the ocean from the kitchen window. I threw darts regularly at Lucy’s by the beach. I went on to move 3 more times in the next 4 years. I made good decisions and bad ones. I learned. And I did it without my parents’ hand.

On this Father’s Day it’s important to note that what got me through, and what still gets me through today are the values and competencies my parents nurtured in me. When I moved out I had very little money. I was low on maturity. What I lacked in self-confidence I made up for in headstrongness.  What I really needed to make it on my own was instilled, I’m sure, way before my parents’ worry started when I moved out. My dad has modeled for me a tremendous work ethic, perseverance, resilience, resourcefulness, tenacity, steadfast calm, and grace under pressure.  He has taught me how to live small, to do without, how to solve my problems.  And he did all of this simply by being himself. My work with my boys is already done.  It was done a long time ago as I unknowingly steeped my children in the same by being who I am. And I’m learning to remind myself that with these qualities, my boys will survive this passage and every other that comes their way.

Now my job is to enjoy the next phase of my life, and to be here when my boys reach out.  Dad does an excellent job of paving the way for this new reality, too.  He shows me acceptance when I make bad choices, offers help when he knows it is too hard for me to ask.  He patches up heated disagreements. He welcomes my new partner in life with open arms.

I ask his brother how it’s going over there, in his new place.  He says everything is fine but there is no hot water.  I am immediately alarmed.  “It’s okay, Mom,” he says, “he’s showering at the gym.”  I can’t help myself; I call him.  It’s all fine, he tells me.  He is working through the process with the gas company. And then I am reminded of who I have raised:  A fiercely independent, resourceful, determined soul hell-bent on finding his own way. And I know he will.

Thanks Dad.   

Brakeman

I’m the last person to step onto the 7:51 and I’m feeling lucky I make it. Driving to the station I am on edge.  The clock on the dashboard says I’ve got two minutes.  The driver in front of us doesn’t seem to know which street he wants to turn on and therefore slows down at every intersection, his blinker flashing into perpetuity.  I’m silently cursing.  Okay, I might be audible, but I expel under my breath. I kiss him on the cheek before we’re even at a full stop. Running poorly in high heels, I thank the conductor at the door for holding the all clear sign until I’m on board.

We are clipping along at what feels like a faster pace than usual. The train is noticeably rocking on the track; I’m having a hard time reading my book. And then we stop. A voice comes over the public announcement system to tell us we’ve been involved in a pedestrian accident. Quiet resignation ripples through the air as the regulars settle in for what they know will be a lengthy delay.

Many people like to say these incidents are not accidents, that an individual has made a deliberate decision to exit an unbearable world.  However, on this day I imagine someone who, like me, is running late. Instead of taking a moment to consider whether the ramifications of tardiness are truly dire, a split-second decision is made to stay on a self-imposed schedule. This individual, I think, pays the ultimate price.

 

The train is undoubtedly filled with frustrated passengers.  Strangely, I am not one of them.  I find irony, and a signal to pay attention, when in rushing to stay on my own timetable I am stopped by someone else I presume to be doing the very same thing.

A woman a few rows behind me is seeking an iPhone charger.  I know most of us probably have one. I do. I pipe up and lend it.  Two little boys on the upper level with their father are quiet as mice for the entire 3 hour delay.  A woman across the aisle patiently works with her doctor’s office over the course of several phone calls to find space for her visit, as the next available appointment, we learn, is in August.  Others around me have much more pressing consequences than I do.

The conductors are rattled.  The engineer naturally unable to get it together when we’re finally able to move again.  As passengers we get very limited information about the incident.  Now, as I’m writing this, I feel compelled to find out the details.  Google quickly produces a short and concise synopsis. A pedestrian was struck 200 feet east of the station. Her death ruled a suicide.  She was 21. I have a 21 year old.  I am grateful.

I’ve seen angry and unruly behavior when mechanical failures take down a train.  I am impressed by the respect and humanity my fellow human beings exhibit on this day.  As I recount my amazement, especially given the divisive and angry state of our country at this moment in time, she reminds me we feed on the behavior around us.  Particularly that of our leaders. This I have witnessed personally and profoundly as the noise level in my home diminishes dramatically the day I decide to take yelling out of my communications repertoire.

She says there was a leader on this train, someone who steps outside of herself or himself, considers the situation and feelings of another human being and puts the other person first. Someone who models the behavior we all follow. I’m not sure who this is.  The impeccably behaved little boys on the upper level?  The woman with the doctor’s appointment?  Me?  It can be anyone and everyone.  There are a multitude of situations every single day where we get to choose how we will behave. We’re all leaders with the power to create positive behavior in others by modeling it ourselves.  It’s magical stuff.  Have you given it a try?