A Mom For All Seasons

Just when I am wallowing in a good, deep, pit of despair because my baby – the boy child, the 16-year-old going on 60-year-old – doesn't need me anymore, life puts a little hurdle out there that proves Moms can be pretty useful. Even if the boy child doesn't want to admit it.

Ever since his sister left for college (thoughtlessly leaving him as the sole recipient of his parent's attention) The Little Prince has done everything he can to assert his independence. Everything he can, that is, while still living under our roof and enjoying free groceries, laundry, and maid service. As soon as he turned 16 he got a job, so he now supports his musical and automotive ambitions, as well as a steady diet of fast-food and jumbo convenience store sodas. Despite his relative economic autonomy, the occasional gas-money donation is still appreciated, and I have found that I seldom (although not never) get change back when I ask him to run an errand for me. This child-labor service charge is a small price to pay for convenience, I suppose.

Between work and well-timed outings with his friends, his schedule precludes dinner with the 'rents most nights (possibly because his mother insists on using lame, outdated slang like “'rents”). He typically shuns homemade leftovers (a trait inherited from his father), preferring microwaved delicacies such as pizza rolls and frozen chicken wings. Likewise breakfast (Pop Tarts) is spent in silent contemplation (a trait inherited from his mother), scuttling back to his room like a hermit to his hermitage as soon as the toaster pops.

I don't blog much about The Little Prince, precisely because he is so self-sufficient and easily embarrassed. I fear any public recognition (actually, I know from experience that any public recognition) will result in an immediate cessation of his already limited acknowledgment of my existence. Let me tell you, you have never been shunned until you have been shunned by a teenage boy.

But I have learned to live with it. Just like I have learned to not jump out of my skin when he slips silently into my office/hermitage and stands there – silently – nodding and occasionally making eye, until I summon all my Super Mom abilities and read his mind.

“Going out with your buddies?” I ask/say/hypothesize.

“Yup,” he says before silently slipping away. My petition to "have fun, be good, love you" chases him down the hallway.

So it was early Saturday morning, when he materialized at my side as I was finishing my first cup of coffee. He stood quietly, nodding with a bit more agitation than usual.

“Heading to work?” I asked.

“Need a coat,” he said, grimacing.

Now, I could have reminded him that I have nagged him for at least two years about getting a winter coat. I could have reminded him that last year I took him shopping and practically forced him to buy a coat before relenting when I realized it would just hang, unused, in the closet. I could have reminded him that he has lived in Iowa for 16 winters and he knows that it gets cold and he knows that his job requires him to spend at least a little bit of time outdoors. But as the temperature hovered at a balmy 2 degrees (expected to fall) and he needed to get to work, I kept all this to myself.

Instead I left my coffee to cool while I helped him search through closets and totes and drawers for a coat, gloves and boots. Then I realized he had grown at least a foot taller since he had last worn a proper winter coat, gloves or boots (since, apparently, high school students are too cool these things) and he had to borrow said items from his father (who was outside and wearing them at the time, because old folks value warmth over coolness).

You may wonder why he didn't ask his father if he could borrow a coat in the first place, instead of making his mother feel like she had neglected him by not forcing him to get a winter coat. You could also ask yourself why (a month ago) he told his mother – at 6 a.m., during her first cup of coffee – that his arm hurt and he thought he might have broken it. And why he then allowed her to sit nervously in the emergency room with him and allowed her to take him out for breakfast when it turned out it wasn't broken.

You may wonder that, but I would prefer that you wonder that in silence. While you're at it, perhaps you could nod your head and wait – silently – for me to acknowledge your presence.

Because the important thing here is that my little boy still needs his mom (whether he will admit it or not).

And a coat.

Cat Scratch Furor

We were late for the cat's veterinary appointment.

There's nothing new about me being late. What is new – and completely true, despite the skepticism of the staff at the animal clinic – is the reason we were late. And yes, it was a reason, not an excuse.

We were late for the cat's veterinary appointment because the cat had to use the litter box before we could leave home.

I swear it's true. Because really, how could I possibly make up something that ridiculous?

I will admit I was running a little not ahead of schedule, but we would have been fine – not early, mind you, but fine – if the cat hadn't decided to answer the call of nature.

Not only did he decide to answer the call of nature, but suddenly he decided he was quite shy about his litter box habits. The same cat who will hop up on top of a table – where he is not supposed to be – hoist a leg skyward, and commence to licking his privates in full view of everyone, decided he couldn't possibly use the little box while I was watching.

Not that I was watching. I was merely trying to locate him so that I could grab him, stuff him into his carrier and try to get back on schedule. I fully expected to find him hiding under the bed where it would be nearly impossible to get him, because where else would he be when we were almost behind schedule?

So there I was, searching of all his favorite, out of the way hiding places when I heard the familiar “scritch-scritch” of litter being shifted.

“Ohhhh no! No, nonono!” I said, knowing full well that Lenny (aka Popper, aka Chicken Fingers aka NONONONO) tends to be quite leisurely when relieving himself. I know this because he typically has no problem using the litter box when I am in the room. In fact, sometimes I wonder if he ever uses it when I am not in the room. In other words, my presence has never deterred him from using the litter box.

Until that moment.

Unable to believe my ears – and knowing this really would put us behind schedule – I stood in the doorway to “Lenny's Room,” hoping against hope that he was just finishing his business.

Instead, he stopped, front paws in the box, and gave me a cat-in-the-headlight stare that said “Do you mind?”

I quickly ducked into an adjacent room to wait him out. Hearing no additional scritching, I decided to check again. All four paws were in the litter box this time, and the look on his face was decidedly hostile, something along the lines of “PERVERT!”

Duly chastened, I slinked down the hall to make sure everything else was ready for our departure. I was standing by the door checking my watch, jangling the car keys and tapping my foot impatiently when Lenny eventually sauntered my way. With a frantic scoop, stuff, escape, chase, grab, re-stuff and zip, Lenny was safely yowling in his carrier and we were out the door. Only 10 minutes late.

It wasn't until after we returned home and Lenny was lounging on the couch, looking as exhausted, betrayed, and pitiful as possible – worn out, I'm sure, from yowling throughout the horrific five-minute drive to the clinic and back – that I thought about how utterly hypocritical he was being.

When I use the bathroom one of two things happens:

Watcha doin' over there, human?

1. If I remember to completely shut and latch the door, Lenny sits outside singing me the song of his people.

“Yeoowllllll. Where are you human? Why, oh why have you shut this door between us? Are you forgetting that it is your responsibility to care for me? It has been 30 seconds since I saw you, since you admired me, since I tripped you.

“Yeoowllllll. When are you coming out? I could starve! I feel myself weakening even now! Listen to this – I can hardly muster enough strength to scratch on this door! Look at this! Look at how thin my paw has become! I can pass it under the door! Yoo Hoo! Hellooooo! This is me waving at you! Remember me?

“Yeoowllllll. The door! Is it? Are you? It is! You are! Mphf. About time. Talk to the tail. Ingrate.”

2. If I don't shut him out, or if he sneaks in before I can shut the door, Lenny sits at my feet singing the song of his people.

“Yeoowllllll. What are you doing human? Why, oh why have you shut the door, trapping me in here with you? Why are you sitting down? What do you mean I can't sit on your lap right now? Are you forgetting that it is your responsibility to care for me? It has been 30 seconds since you held me.

“Yeoowllllll. There is no food bowl in this room! I feel myself weakening even now! It is all I can do to sit here and stare at you, while you do whatever it is you are doing THAT DOES NOT INVOLVE ADORING ME! This is an outrage! I demand that you . . . wait. What? What are you doing? Why is there water running? What is going on in this giant bowl? Why can't I see?

“Yeoowllllll. The door is open? No. No! I do not want to leave! I want to trip you! Or, wait, hey! Come back here! Nope. Changed my mind. Talk to the tail. Ingrate.”

On the up-side, I always remind the family to use bathroom before we leave the house. At least now I know someone has been listening.

Thank You for Not Sighing

Yes, I know we're behind schedule.

Again.

I knew we were behind schedule even before you started following me from room to room, only to stand there. Waiting. Silently.

And P.S.? Thank you for that. The silently waiting. Because if you were to audibly sigh, giving voice to your frustration, I would have to have to throat punch you. And then I'd probably feel bad and I'd have to take you to the emergency room and we would be really behind schedule.

I'm ready to go, now. Sort of.

I've been ready to go, sort of, since before you started following me from room to room, etc. It's just that about the time I was ready to go (sort of) the first time, I realized no one had fed the cat or cleaned his litter box.

So I fed and watered him. And cleaned his litter box.

And then I put everyone's breakfast dishes in the dish washer. Because I emptied the dishwasher right before I finished getting ready to go (sort of) the first time. Before you all finished breakfast. But that's beside the point.

Before that I had to round up the charging cords, double check to make sure I had the tickets, turn off the lights, sweep the floor, paint the hallway, re-roof the house, fell the tree, bale the hay, build the barn and check again for the tickets.

I wish I could be more spontaneous. I wish I could just walk out the door without a second thought.

But I can't.

Because I'm the Mom.

And if I don't feed and water the cat and clear the dishes, I will spend all day wondering how long it will take before the cat throws a fit and tears the house apart, or he at least jumps up on the counter and knocks all the dishes off. Or how long it will take before those dishes start growing mold and attracting bugs.

Or how disgusted the burglar will be when he breaks in and smells the dirty litter box and sees the moldy, bug-infested dishes scattered on the floor, and finds the cat happily stretched out on the counter, playing with the papers that should have been put in the recycling bin before we left.

Or how we will explain to the police that this is the mess the burglar made when he/she broke in, but that is the mess the cat made because we forgot to feed/water/clean his litter box, and there is the mess that we left on the table because we didn't want to be late.

And then the policeman will probably sigh.

And we'll really be late.

The New Normal

It's not the same.

The world did not stop when Mom died and sometimes that just seems so unfair.

Instead life kept rushing forward and I tried to keep up, tried to pretend nothing had changed. But of course it has.

Something – someone – is missing.

There is a hole in my life – bigger, deeper than before.

This is the new normal.

But every day is a new normal.

Things change, in big ways and in small, all the time. We adapt. We change. We accept.

Eventually.

When Mom first started to fail I would get so angry.

“Rage, rage against the dying of the light,” I would think, all full of Dylan Thomas and daughterly angst. “Do not go gentle into that good night.”

My rage was big, and loud, and physical, and angry.

And exhausting.

And useless.

Now I realize she did rage.

But her rage was small, and quiet, and peaceful, and accepting.

And a blessing.

Her rage wasn't a fight to avoid change like I wanted, but a fight to accept change. To face the end with dignity and grace.

She raged against the dying of the light by accepting the limits of physical change, but not letting it change who she was inside.

She made the most of what she still had. And she could still make people happy.

She could care. Smile. Laugh.

At her burial, as the minister said those last few words, as we said our last good byes, we accepted the physical change in our universe – her passing would leave a big, black, sucking emptiness where her body used to be. (Was her ever-shrinking body supposed to make that empty spot smaller? It didn't.)

But the emotional change, the emptiness in my heart, how could I accept that?

An ice cream truck approached from down the hill, the familiar notes of “Turkey in the Straw” ringing cheerfully across the quiet cemetery.

The air under the funeral home's tent, stifling with heat and sorrow just a moment before, changed, vibrated with barely suppressed giggles at the absurd juxtaposition.

“Dorothy would be the first one at that truck, buying us all ice cream,” said my friend-family-sister Sue.

We laughed aloud in recognition and relief.

And acceptance.

Because that is exactly what she would have done.

Exactly what she would want us to do.

Make the most of what we still had: each other.

Make people happy. Care about them. Ask about them. Listen to them.

Smile.

Laugh.

Buy them ice cream.

Accept the new normal.