"I know it sounds selfish," my friend said, peering sheepishly at me from under the bright pink running hat.
"No..." I started to say, but she was off. Two year old Christopher was running headlong away from us wielding a stick. Five year old Beatrice was spinning wildly in circles the other direction, arms straight out to the side, singing loudly, on a trajectory leading straight into a wall.
She seemed so...guilty. She'd spent the day, a rare day off of her demanding job as a lawyer, getting a mani-pedi, going for a run, getting a massage. Sandwiched in between drop-off and pick-up at childcare. I wanted to reassure her, ease her guilt. Let her know that it was ok to treat herself as a human; to respond to a need, any need, of her own. But all that I could think of in the split second of attention she could spare was platitudes: It's like the oxygen mask on the airplane, you have to take care of yourself before you can take care of them.
Even that is about them.
***
"I think you're enabling him." In the nanosecond before the anger fueled adrenaline surge overtakes me, I feel...envious. Her tone is both condescending and conspiratorial. As if to say "I've been holding this in for a while, but now that we are good buddies, I'll give you my opinion of how to turn this thing around. I know you'll be grateful."
I remember exactly how it felt to be that person. So young and sure. The lines were black and white. You observed other lives and knew The Right Thing To Do. You knew because you had been a child with parents once. You were on the receiving end of how not to do it. When the time came you would know how to do it; avoid the pitfalls. Not make the same mistakes.
Then you have a baby. You tear up the list.
***
"I'm just not comfortable with this. Would you be?" She looks searchingly at me. I feel so at home here, with her. We are both working single moms. We grew up in the same town; we're the same age; our boys are both 17. Their fathers are...leaving it to us.
"I would not be comfortable with him having his girlfriend spend the night. Even with her parent's permission." We share a wry smile. I know my son is sexually active. He has been in a committed relationship for two years. He is caring and responsible. I am ok with the fact that he is sexually active. But, having them together like that in my house does not feel right. My honest thoughts are: we did it in cars, so can you. Don't confront me with it. I still take your temperature when you are sick, remind you to wear your helmet, sign permission slips.
We feel the pressure of preparing them to go soon. We wage internal battles everyday, how much to push, let go, guide.
We are exhausted.
***
"I don't understand why you ever believe him. He lies to you all the time." she says matter-of-factly. It's true. My son lies to me constantly. Her tone makes me feel like those mothers you see on tv, mothers of mass murderers caught dead to rights who say "My baby would never do those things."
I want to say: but you can't just punish all the time. It doesn't help. Policing is exhausting. There isn't a solution for this. It's a process. You punish, you cajole, you lecture, you stay consistent. So do they. They will disappoint you several times. The best you can hope for is a shift someday. You know it will happen later, when they are out leading their adult lives. Too late for you.
I say, meekly. "Because I don't want to believe that."
That's true, too.
***
"The thing about parents is, well, you will never love them as much as they love you." She smiles sweetly. At 32, she is closer to her parents than anyone I know. She talks to her mother every day, drives the hour to visit with them every weekend.
As a daughter I disagree; as a mother I know it's true. It's the unrequited love that strips our souls bare. It is expected of us. We must love best of all. That's why the Susan Smiths of the world are the lowest of the low. They are below even the child rapists and killers.
Mothers can only give; they should not expect to take.
***
'I mean do you know how crazy I sound to him?" she laughs. "He's 23 and I'm telling him not to slam the cupboard doors" She cradles her chin in her hand. She thought she was done.
She was the one who said in high school that she wanted lots of kids. We knew that's what she would do. She was built for it. Her kindness shone like a beacon amidst our raggedy crew of misfit wanna-be thugs. We were livng the halcyon days of the late seventies to the fullest; sex, drugs and rock and roll was our religion and we were devout. But she was just marking time, driving us places, hosting holiday parties, helping people get along, wrapping us in her warmth until she could have children of her own.
She had three kids and opened a daycare. She went through a divorce and some particularly harrowing years as a mother. Now she was at a loss as to how to eject her 23 year old from the nest. She is ready for some time alone with her boyfriend, some time for herself.
She talks about it in hushed tones. Only to us. The other mothers.
***
I was smug a few years ago about parenthood. We divorced when he was still a baby, and he always spent time at his father's. I had time to myself. Relationships. Time to work out. I shook my head in dismay at those mothers on "What Not To Wear" who hadn't bought an outfit or had a haircut in 15 years because they took care of everyone else and neglected themselves. I wasn't like that.
I was always fascinated by the part in the show where the women broke down. They inevitably did. It was because they had forgotten how to shop for themselves and were at a loss, or because they were profoundly uncomfortable with the atttention, or because they weren't used to spending money on themselves and making the switch wasn't the joyful fun experience we all wanted for them; it was hard. I thought, give me the five grand, I know what to do! I wasn't like that.
His father moved away a couple of years ago...not far...but he's not so involved anymore. And the teen aged years have been...labor intensive. There are negotiations around curfews and driving and schoolwork and college applications and getting a job and cigarettes and alcohol and all the rest.
I've been thinking about getting a massage, For about six months. I stopped and asked myself why I haven't scheduled it and thought, oh well, because it's not something that needs to be done for the manchild or the dogs or the house...
So I am a little like that.
I admit to feeling a bit wrung out. I'm on the eve of my fiftieth birthday and it's mile 20 of the marathon of parenting: the wall. I know that if he goes off to college in a year, leaves me, I will have succeeded in some way.
And I am terrified that will be the moment that I break down and realize I have forgotten how to just be me.
