Desolation
Wilderness
I dropped him off at the top of the
road this morning so he could catch the bus to work. He's working at a surf shop down near the wharf. I usually drive him into town, but last
night I got the idea to give myself a break and had him call his boss and
request starting a little late. The
thirty-minute drive from the mountains to the ocean is quite scenic and offers
a nice time for the two of us to be alone and "check-in". But after our conversation late last night I
was exhausted and decided not to do him this favor just once. I really don't have to get up and go during
the summer on a daily basis. I'm off
for the summer. And he knows how much I
love to have a day where I don't leave the mountain. He kissed me good-bye twice. One was a silent and rather awkward
apology accompanied by a shrug and his charming, half-dimpled smile. He's always been cute. I'd never allow anyone to say it around him
and never in front of his brother. But
he got the message. Red hair, blue
eyes, creamy white skin and cherubic cheeks.
He nearly died when he was 8 months old and I was sure that I would lose
him long before I was ready to let go.
Disasters seem to lurk around every corner. Stitches, blood, dreaded phone calls from school and then there's
his tendency to feel as though he has to prove something. He has reliably fueled my fears of losing
him. As the youngest of four boys, two
step-children and two from my marriage with their dad, he defined success and
competence early on by watching our other boys. He caught the longest fish, had the deepest dive, the biggest
collection of sports cards, the best terrarium pet, the coolest hat, shoes and
shirts, the best report card, became an artist, excels at soccer,
skateboarding, surfing and whatever else brings recognition, pride, self
gratification. Demands for his own success and uniqueness include struggle,
pain and messiness. But the infectious
joy and buoyant sense of pride are worth it. The camera laid on the seat and as I
turned the car around to head back home, I snapped a picture of him standing
there. I'm losing him, I thought. I need to re-capture him and hold him
close. He's fourteen now. He'll be a sophomore in high school in the
Fall. He's still a child, I tell
myself. He's still got some use for a
mommy. I haven't finished raising him
yet. I have so many more things to
teach him. He's not done. I've heard other mothers of teenagers say
something similar. I called the three boys, ages sixteen,
sixteen and fourteen into the kitchen and asked them if they'd ever noticed how
the stuff builds up behind the faucet handles of the sink. As they shifted their feet, glancing
uncomfortably at one another, I continued.
"You have to check this regularly." I told them. "See it? " I poked at the thick
line of smudge and brought a glob of
the green-gray solid close to the group of them on the end of my finger.
(Wrinkling noses. Has mom lost it? Is
this a trick? What did I do, now?) "So?" One of them said. "So....," I exclaimed, "You are not mature and prepared for
this world unless you can pay attention to things. You have to know what to do about it," I shamed them. And I proceeded to demonstrate the remedy,
the appropriate tools and cleaners. These outbursts, or "crazies",
as my 16-year-old son calls them, come more frequently now that my youngest is
fourteen and has repeatedly requested emancipation. His refrain reflects his point of view. They all sound painfully familiar. I, like most adults, still remember my teenage years quite
vividly. "Everyone else gets to go." "All of my friends have total
freedom." "None of my friends have
chores." "I'm not eight!" "What's the big deal?" "Why can't I just go out and come
home whenever?" "Don't you trust me?" My reply is usually something about my
comfort with my own style as a parent, making my own best guess and that all of
my limits and expectations come from a place of caring and love. I also encourage them to challenge my
rules. I want them to learn to
negotiate and get what they want. I
also hope that they learn when to let up.
Learn to give in. Learn to
relinquish authority to the one who owns it.
Learn to find their own sense of authority. I respect their ideas and encourage them to figure out ways to
accomplish what they want within the given structure. That means compromise.
Compromise is a two-way street.
That means I have to do it, too. "Can I get a couch for my
room? I want to live in my room and
there's no place to lounge around?" He begs. In
all of my teen memories, I can't recall ever wanting a couch. Maybe a stereo, a new bike, skis or clothes,
but a couch? It makes sense considering
my son has always been a planner. A
couch fits into the plan of moving out on his own. Using your parents’ resources to get yourself set up for
independence is a skillful maneuver.
"It won't work. I'm onto him", I think. "Do you have a particular one in
mind?" I ask. "Not like the one you have in the
living room", he replies. Of
course not. I think of a response from our once-favorite
children's story, The Runaway Bunny.
" If you go I'll come and find you." Yes, I will always be here.
When you begin to move away from me, I will welcome you back and help
you come. I repeat, for the "nth" time,
wishing to reassure him: "You are still a young person and
will live with your family at least until you have graduated from high
school." "You will get more privileges as
we you and I both agree that you are ready. And sometimes we will take them
back, when we have made a mistake granting them." "I expect you to become more
responsible as you mature and do your job." "It is your job to do your best
to succeed in school." "It is your job to get along with
people around you, to be generous, loving, honest and seek help when you need
it." We each have our generation-bound mantras. He seeks
independence, and I, to maintain dependence awhile longer. What I hope we discover is maybe called
interdependence, a balance for both of us and recognition of each individual. We hiked 20 miles together last
week. One of our annual summer vacation
spots is Desolation Wilderness in the Sierras.
With dad sitting in the cabin at his laptop computer, two brothers on a
three-day backpacking trip, my fourteen-year-old and myself were on our own for
a few days. He had in mind catching
some trout. Well, not just some. He wanted to catch a boatload of big ones
and take a picture of eac them before he released them back into the cool
water. Like all of the older boys in
the family had done for years. He
obsessed for awhile, pacing in the cabin, then developed a strategy which
included hiking to isolated lakes that he'd spied on maps with those tight,
skinny, brown, topographical lines surrounding tiny blue puddles with names
like "Lily", "Cup",
and "Triangle", named for their shapes, I guess. "OK," I said. "Let's go." And we did.
We were familiar with the trails and
the terrain, as we'd had ten years of summers there. The snow was still thick in patches and a black bear had been
spooked while one of our neighbors was opening his back door last night, but we
set out ready for adventure. As we
headed for the rowboat to go across the lake to the trailhead, I called,
"Did you bring a few extra spinners?" "No, I don't snag 'em anymore,
Mom. And don't pack any lunch, I'm not
hungry." Yeah, right. Just like in first grade when the teacher
would ask who needs to order a lunch today? And he would say, "No thanks,
I'm not hungry." I had to tell the
teacher to mark him down for lunch no matter what he says. He couldn't imagine, with a tummy full of
pancakes, that he'd be hungry three hours later. But, he's always eaten what's put in front of him. I slid on my pack in which I'd already
packed lunch for two, water, snacks, sunscreen, bug repellent (and a few extra
spinners with the barbs clipped off their hooks). Off we went. The hiking
felt good, it was hard, hot and very steep as we moved up toward Lake of the
Woods stumbling through the granite scree. In an hour and a half, I was a bit
out of breath as we got up past 10,000 feet, so we didn't chat as we headed for
the best fishing in the Sierras. He
clamored along in front of me with manly confidence and skill. I watched his muscular legs and bun muscles
work for him and appreciated the pauses when he'd peek back to see how I was
doing. When I'd ask him to stop, he
readily stopped, noticed the birds and plants on the trail and sat quietly
until I was rested. "Who is this young man? Where is the demanding dissatisfied, whining
and impetuous teenager?" I thought as he held my hand while we crossed a
slippery bed of summer snow. I felt safety, care, protection and love. The
things that I have offered him. I was
immediately bathed in warm affection. This, I realized is a precious young man, so capable, so loving
and more mature than I knew. He caught a few fish that afternoon,
two Kokanie, photographed them next to his hand (for size comparison), slipped
them off his barbless hook and carefully slipped them back into the water. He lost all of his spinners on snags and
gratefully accepted the couple I had brought.
When I asked why he didn't cast out his line again, he explained that he
wished that I'd thought to bring a few lures too. We worked together for an hour or more to retrieve a one of the
snagged lines, then gave up and headed back to the cabin. Where the trail was wide enough, we held
hands. We came in just before nightfall to a
drama just beginning, something about two possible lost hikers. A middle-aged
woman and a young man. He was thrilled
to be gone so long and the source of concern.
I apologized for lateness, but wasn't a bit sorry for any of the time I
had spent that day with my growing son.
A wonderful young man. After dinner,I watched as he stacked
the final few dishes and rinsed the sink, taking care to thoroughly clean that
place behind and around the faucet handles at very the back.
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