Merry-Go-Round

On my grade school playground the longest line was always for the merry-go-round. To be in line next to the fastest boy was good because he would always be the one to spin us all around in the fastest way possible. The “scaredy-cats” in dresses would choose to ride in the middle. Those wanting to get the maximum thrill would hold on with both hands while tilting their heads backwards as far as possible. Opened eyes would produce nausea but eyes closed tightly captured the full spinning sensation.
Today I held onto life with knuckle-whitening tightness, and I felt so out-of-control. I spun to next fall when Stuart was gone to college. People I love were dead. Dreams I had held onto since childhood were buried beneath a pile of dirty laundry so hidden that I could no longer find them. My house was quiet…and clean…and lonely. I wished I could move closer to the center where the spinning was much slower. I wished for hamsters on squeaky wheels, loud techno music, “Good Night Moon” and my boys laughing at how I couldn’t finish “Charlotte’s Web” or “The Giving Tree” without crying.
Where did all the swords and pirate patches go? Why don’t I suck up barrel- of- monkeys and air soft bb’s in my vacuum any more? Takers for Saturday night cards are difficult to find. Suggesting an air guitar contest (like when every contestant voted for themselves and didn’t realize that Mom was the tie-breaker) would produce my kids calling an ambulance for transportation to that special floor where all the Jesus’ and Napoleons are kept in separate hallways so they don’t meet each other.
When we did the bi-annual basement cleaning, my 9th grader told me to toss the sled because no one would ever use it again. Irritated by the suggestion, I told him it didn’t snow last year and this winter I planned to ride the sled down the hill myself. Through the years, the basement had been the scene of many a chemistry set experiment. It was there that action figures were melted, mutilated and morphed. The basement lab had produced Batman with three arms and soldiers with dinosaur tails…scary stuff. Speaking of “spooky” it had been the trap door (hidden beneath a dusty braided rug) leading down a crude ladder to the room below the basement that had convinced the guys this house must be the new Kinleystead.
There’s a teenager with hair over his eyes in the room where my freckled-faced Stu likes to read Hardy Boys books. Did I talk to my son the West Point Cadet an hour ago? Not possible, I just walked past the dining room table where he is struggling to finish a report which requires cursive writing (he hates cursive writing). I also wonder why there’s that extra car in the driveway because I thought we could go bike riding down by the river or take a walk through the park and that car’s kinda in the way.
The spinning hasn't stopped. On this day I feel dizzy. I was also wondering about what happened to that fast boy from grade school who's was pushing this merry-go-round.

All My Pirates have Sailed Away

My babies were birthed in a rhythmic pattern every couple of years. After the third boy, my husband bought a personalized license plate which read, "3 Sons", and my childhood Barbie doll heads fell off ( a scary omen). I embraced the Mom-role enthusiastically, after which followed a flurry of themed backyard birthday parties.
There were also t-ball, soccer, and basketball teams. We never did the music lessons, however, because someone gave us a piano, and I stuck it in the playroom. No musical genius emerged or even gravitated toward it, but they did "take to" the computer and the video gaming console. Oh, well.
We had an acre backyard crowned with a massive spreading live oak tree. I lobbied diligently for my husband to build a tree house. Eventually, the tree house did come to be, complete with zipline. Sword fighting pirates and Jedis with light sabers began to fill the yard daily. (Historical anachronisms mean nothing to grade school boys.) The skull and crossbone flag flew proud and high in the live oak branches.
Eye patches, hooks, and swords were commonly found about the Kinleystead. There were many treasure hunts, and I could write the most challenging clues which my children became very skilled at cracking.
The pinnacle of our pirating was Stuart's 6th or 7th birthday party. I made Jeff, against his will, appear as Cap'n Hook. His very- cool costume was something my grandfather used to wear to some sort of masonic meeting, and I even blackened his face and teeth. He was more than a slightly grumpy participant. But, it was possible to rent a clown...just not a pirate...and I was desperate.
Anyone who has ever enjoyed a hummingbird feeder will understand that they hover about the garden, squeak and war against each other delightfully for a season. One day, abruptly without farewell, they are gone.
It's the same with Pirates. They just sail away. And leave the swords and eyepatches lifeless on the playroom floor.

Open Windows

My college guy called me last night. He wanted me to know that he had received his "Happy Fall" package and that it was awesome and would be great for weekend eating! He was extremely tired, as West Point Cadets tend to be, and was heading to bed early. So, after visiting briefly, I said, "I'll let you get on to bed. Thanks for calling."
"...So...uhhh...how is everyone?" was his response and a window was opened for an extremely chatty 30 minute conversation. (Mother of sons are not used to this.)
I'm slowly morphing into Mom- of -College -Person. I would talk to him every day if I could, not to instruct him on his life or to tell him what to do, but just because I miss his voice, his loud techno music, his messy room, his very smelly socks, and all his friends.
It takes a lot of discipline to be a mom in this new role. I'm learning to give him space, to keep my advice in check, and to become less instructor more cheerleader.
I'm in a unique situation with few of the "omg, my son's a college freshman" fears. (I'll save those for next fall when Stu is a freshman.) Clayton's school cares more about his grades than I do. They care more about his health and what he eats; he can't skip class -ever, and his room has to be spotlessly clean. (I'm still in awe that Clayton received the award for "Best Room in his Company". The last two months of his senior year, I had put a "CONDEMNED" sign on his door.)
Open window moments don't come frequently, and I want be wise enough to recognize them and discerning enough to not force it open myself.
I am pausing from my busy Thursday to paste this "Open Window Encounter" into my mental scrapbook.

The Cross-Eyed Trooper

Getting Stuart's driver's license was a three year quest. In hindsight, I know that I started him too soon, even though it's legal at 14. It began well when he passed Driver's Ed and the written test with ease. It was just the driving part that seemed to get in the way. Fact: Our Expedition is as appealing to a young driver as maneuvering an Abrams tank through the mall parking lot. (My first driver got his license at 16 but chose a year-long no-driving strike before conceding to the tank.)
For Stuart, the biggest obstacle was the Cross-Eyed Trooper - Arkansas Department of Motor Vehicles self-appointed Gate Keeper. He was fat, tall, and extremely mean. Stuart failed twice under his watch, once out of sheer nervousness. Hated by all, including his co-workers, he handed out failure slips with maniacal glee.
Our third effort to get the license proved successful. I stood in the waiting room praying and peeking. "Please, God, don't let Stuart get the Cross-Eyed Trooper, pleeeease."
Test-givers manned desks horizontally placed before the excessively long line of licensee-hopefuls. One-by-one they were called forward.
"Please, God, please," as Stuart inched his way to the front. "Let it be the smiling, jolly African American Trooper or the woman."
"No, God, no!" as Stuart was called to appear before the Cross-Eyed Trooper.
"Why, God, why?" as Stuart joined the smaller Road Test Group.
Then, I don't how, another Trooper appeared like an angel sent directly from Heaven, and Stuart was ushered out to his test and came back with a pass slip and we laughed and rejoiced and did high fives in line for his license photo and celebrated with a hamburger.
I have Cross-Eyed Troopers in my life...obstacles so scary that I become paralyzed. The Cross-Eyed Trooper means failure. He doesn't go away; he grows meaner and bigger the more I ignore him.