The Empty Nest Never Falls Far From the Tree |
I accidentally raised my children to be travelers. Oh, it's really great that they've grown up to be so fiercely independent, with an insatiable hunger for globetrotting and adventures and all. In fact, I have just a wee whiff of those traits myself.
But I'm about to tell you a story that, if word ever gets out, is doomed to win me the World's Worst Mother Award (just what I need sitting on my mantle). However, it happened over 20 years ago, so the statute of limitations may be up, and anyway the kids have turned out just fine in spite of me. So I'm going out on a limb and telling you this little horror story from my sordid past, a cautionary tale about two wee travelers and the World's Worst Mom.
The day the travel bug first bit them in 1984, my sons were two and four; I remember because the baby was still in diapers, still walking with that distinctive wide-legged waddle-gait. I was working at home at the time on a prehistoric word processor, copyediting nonprofit newsletters for a cleverly named but short-lived business called "The Instant Comma" (hardy har).
When the kids weren't bickering and poking each other in the eye with pickup sticks, they were performing science experiments that involved Play-Doh in the microwave and hamsters in the toilet bowl. Or occasionally vice versa. Since 6:00 that morning they'd been interrupting me every 25 seconds to ask if we could go to the store to buy candy. And we lived in Berkeley then, so the goddess only knows how the hell they even knew what candy was. Osmosis, I guess.
"No!" I said for the ten billionth time. "I'm trying to work! Um, what exactly is the difference between historic and historical ... Honey, can you hand me that Modern American Usage book?"
"Okay, Mom," said my enterprising elder son as I struggled to remember whether H came before or after Q. "We won't bother you anymore. We'll just go to the store all by ourselfs. All right?"
"Mmmm-hmmm," I said absently. "That's fine, honey."
Well. Damned if they didn't. They stuffed their little OshKosh pockets full of loose change from the dresser and, holding hands and looking both ways at all the major (!!!) intersections, they walked. Five! heartstopping! blocks! Through heavy traffic. To the center of bustling downtown Berkeley. By themselves!Two and four.
I know, I know. Go ahead -- call the cops.
They'd been gone at least fifteen minutes before I noticed how quiet it was. I called them; no answer. I looked in their room, I checked the backyard, I phoned the neighbors. They were nowhere. I felt as though I had the Hoover Dam lodged in my esophagus.
I'll leave the next twenty minutes to your vivid imaginations, except to say that I vacillated wildly between babbling hysteria and catatonic muteness. You are also free to imagine the tsunami of insane relief (and guilt) that swept over me when I finally finally] saw my children rounding the corner. The four year old was clutching a paper sack full of M&Ms and Red Vines, still holding on to the baby, whose fat little legs pumped furiously as he struggled to keep up.
Ok, forget the cops. Just go ahead and shoot me.
It turned out they had wandered up and down the filthy bustling sidewalks of Shattuck and University Avenues, carefully stepping over panhandlers and around dog feces, until they finally came to an Exxon station with a mini-mart that sold candy. And not ONE single person stopped them to ask where their grownup was!
But never mind the extensive therapy and sedation bills that I required following this incident. Let's look at it this way: My kids were absolutely brilliant. And so brave! They were proactive, and competent at problem solving; they exhibited gumption, and good judgment, and perseverance. They set out on an impossible odyssey, and they accomplished their mission safely and successfully. What mother wouldn't be proud?
Never mind that I haven't been quite right in the head since that day.
As the decades passed, when I was at last able to stop screaming and complete a coherent thought or two, this reassuring proof of their skill and competence and good sense was a huge comfort to me. I reminded myself of it when my teenage boy geniuses decided to take their summer job money and explore Europe all by themselfs. And it has comforted me again and again, many times over the years.
My older son has recently been traveling back and forth between London and Rotterdam on business. Next month he'll fly down to New Zealand for a friend's wedding. My younger son recently moved from Berkeley to Oregon. Adventures and travel to faraway places! And me? I never know exactly when I'll see them again.
I suppose I could just live vicariously through my boys and their adventures, when I'm not too busy chewing my nails down to bloody nubs and freaking out over things like plane crashes or bird flu. Or, I could curl up in a heartbroken bereft fetal ball beneath my desk and spend some quality time with the various hues of Johnny Walker. Oh, believe me, I could.
But really? I think the very best thing I can do for my sons at this point in their lives and mine is to just go out and get a damn life of my own. Fall in love! Travel a little! See new sights, meet new people, learn new skills, have a few spunky adventures myself. Set a good example. They have enough to deal with right now; they shouldn't have to worry or feel guilty about poor lonely old Mom back home with nothing better to do than sip prune juice cocktails on the verandah and knit berets for her five hundred cats.
So that's what I'm doing: having adventures of my own. I always say, if you can't beat 'em, join 'em. I hope the kids understand. |
Vibrating Liz |
| About the author: |
| Vibrating Liz is an avid writer, dancer, gardener, weight lifter, and cancer survivor who firmly believes that 50 is the new 18. She lives in a small rural village in the quirkiest part of the deep south with an engaging assortment of flora and fauna |
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