After nineteen loops
around the sun, my parenting journey has included a lot of firsts. Especially in these last few weeks, and
while a better mother might never admit that she has a favorite child, an
honest mother would snort at such bullshit, and top off my Pinot Noir. For firsts like these they don’t make
scrapbook pages.
My daughter turned
twelve. She’s my youngest, so I
have met twelve before. Twelve is heart breakingly tender and sweet and funny.
Twelve has a foot in childhood and a foot in adolescence. Twelve is ready for
anything. Twelve thinks mom can’t
possibly know or won’t check. With
a questionable ensemble stuffed in her backpack, she attended her first middle
school dance last week.
Seventeen moved into his
college bound brother’s basement lair as soon as it was abandoned. Seventeen is a militant locavore,
unless he finds perfectly good bananas in the dumpster behind Mill Valley
Market. Seventeen is occasionally
a vegan, or a vegetarian, depending upon whether rennet free parmesan is
available. Seventeen cycles all over the Bay Area, not wanting to contribute to
the burning of fossil fuels, and guerilla camps all over Mount Tam, not wanting
to be associated with the family unit. Seventeen is a talented artist and
musician and is currently in his
awkward social-protester-eco-terrorist phase. Seventeen is such an adorable
age. He stayed out all night last
week for the first time, eventually texting at 1:43 AM to say where he was
sleeping.
Nineteen is currently my
least favorite. Nineteen leapt from the nest and was insulted that I had bought
a desk lamp, sheets & towels for his dorm room. We don’t have a shared
world view. Nineteen rode his bicycle 960 miles up to Olympia to start college,
which made me crazy but proud when he successfully arrived. When I heard Nineteen’s recorded voice
saying his name after the King County Jail collect call prompt, my chest
compressed like Scarlet O’Hara’s when Mammy cinches her corset. I now know what it feels like when your
heart stops. Two weeks ago
Nineteen spent his first night in jail.
In just a few weeks I’ve
navigated middle school dress code, eleven o’clock curfew and posting
bail. Just in time for Mother’s
Day. I never got around to doing a
birthday cake for twelve, so a nice thick layer of guilt to pair with the Pinot
Noir.
Twelve was at band practice, Seventeen on a
ridge near Fairfax and Nineteen under a blanket of clouds in Olympia during the
annular Solar Eclipse. I sat on
our deck and stared at the eclipsed sun through a double layer of Twelve’s shoulder x-rays from years
ago. There’s a juicy metaphor in
there somewhere, weighting the branch like a ripe plum. If I weren’t so singed by my maternal
ring of fire, I’d easily see it.
Mary Allison Tierney's essay The Gingerdreadman is included in the anthology Mamas Write, available at Amazon, or your local independent bookshop.
