Time Travels

As I waited in the high school parking lot yesterday to retrieve my daughter and her friends from badminton tryouts, I was certain, several times, that my son was approaching my car. He happened to call me as I sat enjoying the tricks my mind was playing on me; the traffic noise in the background confirmed that he was still in New York, and not one of the hunched, hooded, faceless teenage boys shuffling out of the high school gym from tennis tryouts.

I shared my bit of time travel with my son, and he got it. He said he could imagine that sitting in that same spot in the high school lot where I used to wait for him would conjure up all sorts of vivid memories. I was quick to assure him they were good ones, and he understood that too, despite the difficulties he faced during those high school years. Back then he would have grunted impatiently at my sentimentality; these days, he's not afraid to admit he takes his own sentimental journeys from time to tome.

Some days seems interminable, but time is passing way too quickly. With my older daughter graduating from college this year and my son, as always, following closely on her heels (at least in terms of timing), it seems that my youngest daughter will zip through four years of high school in less than a blink of an eye. Seventeen years ago this month we moved with our two young children to our brand new house in deep dark suburbia; I can still remember placing their matching Aladdin bathmats on the floor in their new bathroom, helping them stake their claim to their new home. My own personal version of landing on the moon.

Those bathmats are long gone, and those two children are now occasional visitors in the not so new house. That bathroom now services just one teenager, who has claimed it as her own with an array of lotions and potions that spreads across both sinks. She no longer has to avoid the toilet she shared for years with her brother by trekking down the hall for less distasteful bits of porcelain seating. Toilet issues notwithstanding, she misses her siblings even more than I do. Maybe not so much more as differently.

I love the people her siblings have become, though they seem a bit out of place when they return to the house they grew up in. Yesterday, in the parking lot, I wanted to approach the mothers of the boys and tell them to savor the impatient grunting, because soon those slouching, hooded, faceless (and somewhat unpleasant) creatures would be gone, at least physically. One day, they will not look like gang bangers, and they will morph into young men who will suddenly realize their parents are people in their own right. They will still grunt but less often, and they will be the source of some of the most surprising and wonderful conversations.

All three of my children are works in progress, and though I always miss where they've been, I love watching where they go. I suppose I'm a work in progress, too; maybe I should remind myself to enjoy the ride.