"Do you want to go play tennis?"
My son has arrived for a two week cameo appearance, en route from his life in New York City to a year (please God, no more than a year) in Kobe, Japan. Did I want to go play tennis? It was eight o'clock in the evening, I had just shoveled in enough left over Thai food to feed an average family of four, and had topped it off with a rather heaping serving of Moose Tracks ice cream. Slow churned, according to the package, which seems to have something to do with why it can be creamy yet still contain fewer calories per serving than your average brand. Maybe so, but since the serving size listed on your average (or slow churned) gallon of ice cream is about the equivalent of the little extra spoonfuls I lick while I wait for my real serving to soften in the microwave, I've pretty much sabotaged any well-meaning corporate attempts to trim the fat. So much for good will.
Did I want to play tennis? You guys know me pretty well; do the math. I wanted to extract myself from my jeans, slip into baggy sweats and a tee shirt, and cuddle up with Manny on the couch so I could nap a little before heading up to bed. Are you high? That's the response that immediately sprung to mind, but I knew in my heart my son was not high -- at least not at that moment. He was not strumming away absentmindedly at his guitar and pondering the ceiling fan over his bed; he was in the kitchen, chatting about books and politics and hypocrisy (ah, finally, a topic I could understand), the whites of his eyes visible and actually white.
"I can think of nothing I'd rather do right now," I told him. He looked skeptical; maybe he was just horrified by the soupy slow churned ice cream that was dripping down my chin.
"Never mind," he said. "You're tired. We'll do it some other time." The almost twenty-two year old young man sitting next to me in the kitchen looked disappointed. Chin stubble and hairy legs (his, not mine) notwithstanding, all I could see was the terrified baby boy who would attach himself to me like glue if someone else approached; the chubby cheeked pre-schooler running toward me after two hours in the classroom, the look of relief on his face palpable. He had endured the long separation, and mommy was there, waiting. I always was, but he just could not help but be a tad bit worried until he saw me there, with his own eyes. His bright, never bloodshot eyes that sparkled when he smiled.
I was about as likely to say no to tennis last night as I would have been to not be waiting, at the front of the pack, for him to emerge from a tough morning at pre-school. So off we went; we played, played well even, for about an hour, interrupted occasionally by folks from the evening tennis crowd whom neither of us had seen for quite some time. We emerged into the parking lot arm in arm, both of us feeling invigorated and happy we had spent the time together doing something we both enjoy. If I could have, I would have carried him, just as I used to, enjoying his sweet faced giggle, marveling at the way his cheeks wobbled as we walked.
Funny how things change. I am the one who waits anxiously now for that glimpse of reassurance. I could feel my entire body relax the other day when I drove up and saw him waiting for me at the airport. I will be the one who wants to cling on for dear life in two weeks when I drop him off again. The two hours he used to have to endure before finding me, waiting outside the pre-school doors, probably seemed like a year to him. The year I will have to endure, waiting for him to return from Japan, will seem like an eternity to me.
As we drove home after tennis, he told me he knew how much I didn't want him to go. Not so, and I tried to explain to him the inner contradictions of being a mom. I want him to go more than anything, to follow his dreams, pursue his passions, to never have to regret not having done this. But I want him to hate it just enough that he'll want to come home (and, by home, I mean somewhere closer than Japan, though we're still debating whether Spain counts). "This is your time," I told him. Maybe I killed the buzz just a little bit, but I told him that as much as I want him to take care of himself now, enjoy his youth and experience all the adventures life has to offer, I want him to also, one day, know what it feels like to take care of someone else, a family of his own. I don't want him to miss out on that gift either.
No matter when he comes home, he and I both know I will be waiting. We will both smile, but the relief, this time around, will be mine.
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