I just had to use some modern-day discipline to get myself to make my children’s lunches before I sat down to write. I call this “modern-day” discipline, because if I told my grandmother I was being responsible by making lunches before writing I can hear her saying, “what the Sam Hill? Writing? Do your mom work and then go press your sheets…and why are you making lunches anyway? Lunch is free in your district! Wasteful! I grew up in the Depression and one time our dog brought home a whole steak, uneaten, in his mouth, and that was some day…”
My grandmother used to fall asleep on the couch every night when she visited us. One night I found myself watching her, thinking of all the things she’d seen – wars, the Depression, a walk on the moon – when she woke up and caught me.
“Well?” she said, in that Brooklyn accent of hers. “What’re ya lookin’ at?”
I made lunches, quite simply, because my son has the culinary inclinations of a goat. I could save money on yard work and haircuts if I let him pursue his true calling.
I am also making lunches because today is the first day of school. I’ve been watching all of the posts from down South as kids return to school, with parents choking back tears and lamenting that their babies are growing up.
I am not that mom.
I sometimes get nostalgic for the feel of my children as babies, usually when I see old pictures and I can suddenly smell their baby smell with a visceral sharpness, or I can feel the feather weight of them in my arms (I can still feel the literal weight of Ella, as a five-year-old who insists she’s one and big for her age and needs “uppie”). I once saw a little boy in his mom’s arms across the street and had such a wave of nostalgia that I actually did want an infant again. This understandably freaked me out, as both my pregnancies were terrifying concealed tightrope walks, until I realized that what really captivated me was the little boy’s jeans, which resembled a pair that I used to have for Finn. I just needed to dress a baby. A few weeks later I changed a friend’s toddler, and I got to experience again what it means to actually full-body-lock a small human in order to put on a pair of tiny shorts, and I got over that feeling right then and there.
Back to what it feels like to be not-that-mom. Is there something wrong with me that I don’t cry on the first day of school? I think that part of me is unable to see it as a loss of time gone by. I can see the passage of time, but with each passing day I see my children change and grow from new experiences, and I see these experiences add to who they are. I get to know my children more and more, as there is more of them to know. Maybe I don’t feel the loss because I so fervently seek the gain. Maybe I can’t let myself endure the loss yet.
I am so new to this world of looking forward. For about ten years of my life, I was unable to see a future. My ex-husband would ask what I wanted to do if we won the lottery, wanting, understandably, to daydream. I had no daydreams. I would make them up, but I felt nothing. I would say I wanted to travel to Greece. Why Greece? It made no sense. I hate the food, and I’d undoubtedly have to eat there. Maybe I just looked forward to ruin. But seriously, fuck feta and gyros. Blech.
Since the divorce, I have found that I look forward. I don’t start having panic attacks on Thursdays. I don’t want to sleep through weekends. I am present, but I am also looking forward, because I know I can go on. And these children will go on. They will live and love and grow, and I will watch them and hold them as long and as tight as I can, but I will also let them fly.
Crowded Hours 