Taking Flight

It's my birthday, and I'll cry if I want to, but I don't really want to. Nevertheless, my mother made me cry twice this morning, although I admit there was no evidence of malice in either provocation.

The first emotional breakdown came when I opened her e-card -- a sparkling "Happy Birthday" message with bright red balloons shooting upward from each letter as soon as I clicked where it told me to. The image itself made me chuckle, but I cried from pride, beaming that my almost eighty year old mother is now possessed of the technical savoir faire to send an e-card. This is a woman who still uses an original "Mr. Coffee" machine. And even before her hearing became impaired, she always believed one must scream into the phone, since the person on the other end is so far away. Her technical wizardry when it comes to email, though, never ceases to amaze me.

My second outburst came because she had actually caused me pain. Physical pain, that is, not the psychic pain one might have expected. The woman is deaf, but that didn't deter her from calling first thing in the morning and belting out a frighteningly dissonant Happy Birthday in my ear. All the wax in the world couldn't save me -- my head was still throbbing a half hour later. She has one of those caption phones, so when she read my response, which was an agonized and sarcastic "oy, that was pleasant," it probably came up as an enthusiastic and grateful "boy, what a wonderful present." Just as well.

What a drag it is, getting old. Somebody told me the other day that getting older is not for the faint of heart. Neither is getting divorced. I suppose I should have a cardiologist on retainer. Watching your children get older is no picnic either. Today, my mother is no doubt pondering not just the fifty-one years that, for her, have passed in what feels like three seconds, but also the challenges I'm facing as my life takes its new twists and turns. And she probably feels as powerless as I do when I talk to my twenty-one year old daughter, whose life has its fair share of unpredictable challenges as well. At least when I reassure her, it's familiar territory; I've been there. My mother doesn't have that luxury; she has no idea what it feels like to be where I am now, and for the first time I can remember, she's pretty much speechless.

A few days ago, I told my daughter to stop worrying about all the uncertainty -- that she is just starting her life, on the threshold of so many new and exciting things. Interesting. Thirty years apart, and we both find ourselves at square one, wondering what's in store. Different thresholds, different doorways, and certainly different mysteries lie ahead for each of us. But it's comforting to know we're not going it alone.

Life beyond the fishbowl -- for her, college, for me the neat confines of suburbia where all houses look happy from the outside -- can be scary. She often looks to me for guidance, which I hand out without hesitation, but I laugh silently to myself as I do so. I hope like hell she follows my sage advice better than I do. Fishbowls can be suffocating, but they are our security blankets. The pull backwards can sometimes be so powerful that it's almost impossible to imagine that moving forward will bring anything but bleakness and loneliness. I'm one hundred per cent certain that won't be the case for her. (At least she has a job waiting! I was officially notified that I did not get hired as a seasonal overpriced yoga clothing sales person. My friend pointed out that my unavailability for work on all the biggest shopping days of the year may have made me undesirable, but I just assume it was because I looked fat in their clothing. Yes, bad habits are tough to break, and eating disorders live on, well beyond your last purge.)

My mother, almost thirty years ahead of me, is, in some ways, just starting out as well, on the brink of a new and unfamiliar journey. There are uncharted waters ahead for her, in a world silent from hearing loss, and silent too as more and more old friends depart. We are, all three of us, babies, just learning to walk. Three generations of babies.

Some babies run before they walk. My mother, my daughter, and I may be made of sugar and spice but we come from some pretty strong stock. We'll probably bypass walking, flex our wings, and fly.