Random thoughts and moments from my life. REALLY random.
May 08, 2007
As I drove along I said something (unnecessary) to Tre in the seat behind me. When he didn’t respond, I repeated myself.
Still nothing.
I flipped the rearview mirror down to look at him, irritated. He was listening to a cd, earbuds firmly jammed in place. He wasn’t ignoring me, he was deaf to me.
I flashed back on a frequently repeated scene from my teen years.
Picture this: me, slumped in the back seat. The bangs soared high, the eyeshadow formed a fetching strata of purple and pink, and in my lap was cradled my precious Walkman. Over the strident tones of Madonna (who understood what it was like to be…something BIGGER and MORE IMPORTANT than anyone knew), I became aware of my mother’s voice, repeating my name. With hands made heavy by my lot in the world, I picked up my Walkman and punched the button to stop the music. I looked up, treating my mother’s eyes in the rearview mirror to a pained expression.
“WHAT?”
“Do you have to listen to that right now? I swear, sometimes it seems like you’re not even here.”
Not even HERE? What was the woman TALKING about? I was trapped, TRAPPED here. I would die and shrivel up HERE, STUCK, in this car.
Cue wavy-lined segue back to present scene, me, observing my son in my own rearview mirror. He gazed out the window, lips moving silently along with the lyrics.
I get it, Mom. I get it.
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Am I the only one who has noticed that Paula Deen is crazy? I mean, like, CA-RAAAAZAY. No? Y’all aren’t seeing it? Fried butter balls? I mean, I'm sure she's a very NICE crazy person...
Huh.
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Saturday Raphael and I were walking past a tennis court and he gestured at its green expanse.
“I think tennis looks easy.”
“Really?”
“Yup. We’d just need to get a new tennis ball, because Carmi ate ours. And then we should go play tennis sometime.”
“Hmmm,” I said, falling back upon the motherly defense of non-committalyness.
“Well, we would need to buy some tennis whackers, too.”
That’s my boy. All he needs for a rockin’ game of tennis is a few tennis whackers…and a smidge of self-confidence.
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Who would think that a mere three boys could experience such endless turmoil over the issue of “NO, IT’S MY TURN”? Whether it’s time to tell about their school day, or time to say the dinner prayer, or time to help me to my feet, there is an unrelenting jockeying for position.
And me without my dart gun.
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“Non-committalyness”? Totally a word. AND a strategy.
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Sunday morning was a difficult one for Max. He woke up out of sorts and proceeded to spend the rest of his morning doing his very best to bring everyone along for his ride. And then being bewildered that people were mad at him.
When we got to church it turned out that he was scheduled to serve as an acolyte, as crucifer. This meant he was the one to carry the cross down the aisle for the processional, and when it was time for the gospel reading, he accompanied the deacon up the aisle to the midst of the church. Then the deacon rested the book on Max’s hands and read the gospel passage.
Now, Max is a touch fidgety for this job on his best day. Sunday? Was not his best day. As he marched up the aisle with the deacon, he squirmed and scowled. I could tell that he was anxious, afraid that he was going to screw this important job up. If you didn’t know him you would think that he was angry. I could tell he was suffering from the weight of wanting to do it right.
As he turned and offered his hands, I tried to catch his eye and give him an encouraging nod. I wasn’t far from him, and he did turn to look at me.
Or so I thought.
I smiled at him, but he didn’t respond, and I realized he was gazing past my left ear.
At Clay.
“Good job, buddy,” Clay’s whisper stirred my hair. Max nodded back, curtly, and turned to face his duty with a renewed calm.
Oh, I'm so thankful that Max has a good Dad again, to give him encouragement in such situations!
Posted by: RB | May 09, 2007 at 06:04 AM
All that AND good arms... are you certain that Clay is, in fact, MORTAL?
I would say more, but I've been feeling a tight, heavy feeling my chest ever since I clicked through to read the butter ball recipe. Anyone have some nitro...?
Posted by: Mir | May 09, 2007 at 06:23 AM
I'm pretty sure the word is "noncommitalosity" but that's just my dictionary. And like Paula Deen said on Opree, "I'm your cook, not your doctor!"
And finally, Madonna? Please tell me you had Cyndi Lauper too. Please? Because if you did, I can forgive you for Madonna.
Posted by: groovecatmom | May 09, 2007 at 08:04 AM
You brought tears to my eyes, once again.
Posted by: | May 09, 2007 at 08:18 AM
“Non-committalyness”? Such a great word! Say it out loud. It just feels good coming out of your mouth!
Thanks for getting it. My person endless trap of childhood, the place I was going to grow old and die - was the fabric department. Tall bolts of cloth. Short me. Mother and aunt endlessly discussing fabric. Just thinking about it causes a craving for fried butter balls.
Posted by: Amma D. | May 09, 2007 at 11:35 AM