Bother

The other day, I exited the highway one short and got stuck travelling in the wrong direction. It paid off.

       

I'm unable to judge distance in terms of feet so I'll just say, about eight or ten car lengths in front of me on the off ramp was a small, black SUV-ish vehicle. It swerved a bit and then, from the driver's side floated several papery items into the air - dollar bills. I stopped and got out, scrambling to gather up the bills. The black car slowed and I held up the handful of money.I was convinced the driver saw me, but the car disappeared.

I pulled over and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

A Sheriff's car pulled up and the officer leaned to ask if I was okay. I explained what I was doing and he left.

I began to think about what I was doing.

Then I began to think about what that sheriff would have done if he were not in uniform.

Then I wondered what my friends would do.

Then I wondered what my CEO friends would have done, what with all their chronic hurry.

I did not wonder what my children would have done, but I did wonder how long they'd wait.

So I texted all but the fourth who would have said "don't bother," and each responded, "5-10 minutes."

How much money was involved they asked and I said, "60."

How long had I already waited they asked, and I said, "A half hour."

Right after that my phone went dead. So I went to the police station and left the cash with a very surprised receptionist who couldn't believed I'd turned it in. I left her my cell phone number.

I wasn't surprised that she was surprised. It is unusual for someone to do that even though it necessarily means that it is more usual to drive through the airborne bills, or, pick them up and keep them.

But I have twenty-something children.

Sixty dollars fills my son's gas tank so that he can make it to work each day. Sixty dollars buys groceries or pays the electric for my daughters who are making their independent lives work. When I was eighteen, sixty dollars a week was about what I was paid to work in a stationery store for a middle-aged bully who said things like, "I'll bet you think you're just beautiful, don't you?"

Sixty dollars is a lot of money.

I came home and told all of this to my fourth child who was touchingly, very proud of me. I asked - I really wanted to know - if he thought the driver of the black car would go in search of his/her cash.

"No," he said.

"Cynic," I said.

"No, I'll explain," he offered. "The guy sees his money fly out the window. He says, 'Well that sucks. Sixty bucks. Damn.' If he saw you and didn't come back, he figured you'd kept it. If he didn't see you and didn't come back, why would he bother with the police station?"

Why would I, then? Why would anyone?

At around 9:00 that night, I picked up a voicemail from a tearful woman who had called to thank me for turning in her sixty dollars.  She'd spent an afternoon picking up and dropping off tired, hot, cranky kids and wanted to take them for ice cream. She stopped at the bank and in her haste, rested the envelope on the dash where the wind carried it away.  

"I saw it go flying everywhere," she said in her message. She ended by letting me know they were a young family who didn't have much. Sixty dollars meant a lot.

Why would anyone bother? That's why.

A someday talk with my grandsomeone

Every once in a while, I think about this question:  What’s happy?

It sounds tedious but it's not. It's tedious if you wake someone up to talk about it with you.

I think about these questions because someday, I will grand-sit a grandsomeone who may ask, “What does happy mean Grandmummy, and why are you wearing a necklace with a skeleton on it?” After l remind my grandsomeone that it's almost Halloween and that this is what fun Grandmummies wear to keep from being tedious be festive, I'll have something to offer:

Happy is knowing what you’re doing next and always having something to look forward to.

"Want to” things are happier when “have to" things are out of the way, I'll say, and I'll give an example: "Wouldn't it be more fun to go to Petco for a goldfish when the homework is done then to come home with the goldfish and have to wait until you finish homework to watch it swim and give it a name?"

My grandsomeone will ask if we can buy a goldfish later and I will think it over.

Also, I’ll explain that happy isn’t getting what you want as much as knowing what you want. And, that it's a feeling and not a thing. The feeling of seeing someone you miss the second they get off a plane, of winning a contest, of waking up on the first morning of summer vacation, of learning to pedal a bike.

My grandsomeone will tell me that the perfect name for a goldfish would be "Goldie," and I'll agree.

Then I'll tell my grandsomeone that life is happier if you ask questions of it. For instance, I'll say, "Better to plan life or live it? Take the shorter, easier path or the twisty, interesting one? Better to be brave or honest?  A dreamer or a thinker? Popular or respected?"

My grandsomeone will answer every question with "Both," and because that is the correct answer to many either-or things, I will point that out.

Then I'll ask my grandsomeone if we should go to Burger King or McDonalds for lunch and my grandsomeone will look confused and say, "Both?" and I'll say, "No. Let's go to McDonald's because the french fries are healthier."

It's not going to happen soon, but it's possible that I will have this kind of conversation with a grandsomeone some day. It's possible I'll be asked a question like, What is happy?  It's not in my DNA to be a grandmummy who says, "Gosh, grandsomeone, I've never thought about that."

So I'm thinking ahead. I already love the drive-thru. All I need is a skeleton necklace. 

Into the Green and White Everything

Green and white...

Colors of early summer.

In our town, the colors of promise

and full lives not yet realized.

Colors of you did it.

The graduates,

with their lip gloss,

and flip flops,

and now straightened teeth,

and now cleared skin,

and longer term plans,

who hug us now like they mean it,

and tell us with softer eyes, I love you too...

a little bit stunned by what has passed,

awed by what might come,

and yet prepared for anything...

marched 

past our wistful smiles and misty eyes

and hearts full of anything for you...

into the green and white land of

Everything.

At First

Recently, Elon held it's two-day spring orientation for "incoming freshman" as they are called. I took Sam. There, we joined a hundred or so other high school seniors who meandered, phones in hand, at the side of their parents while they scanned the surroundings for information: where to go, what to wear, how to be. Sam reached the end of this two-day trailer of his future with high expectations which dove-tailed nicely with my own. All of Sam's siblings have marched into this same forest of unknowns and thank you God, have each emerged with maturity, wisdom and all of their limbs.

In the spirit of been-there-done-that, I didn't expect to be impressed with the advice offered by Elon faculty to incoming parents. Indeed, after the Assistant Dean of Students began with "These are days of hope and fear," I began to think about where to eat.

But  the message became unique with two words at its center that can make the difference between success and failure in any new environment (and for anyone). They are:  at first.

For better or worse, nothing remains as it is, "at first."

Because this parallels my  philosophy of "right now," (quick review: Everything, good or bad, is just right now) and because the advice was coming from a person of obvious status, and because it was delivered  with a song of a southern accent, I paid attention.

"You hope they'll catch on fire, find their perfect major, perfect internship, perfect friends. They will," said the speaker, "but not at first." 

"You fear they'll be lonely, homesick, overwhelmed, and awkward. They will," she continued. "At first."

"At first, they will call," said the speaker. "You will hear the loneliness, the uncertainty.  They may cry. They won't know what to do. Then they will hang up. One of you will feel worlds better. It won't be you."

The requisite "letting go" speech came next and by now I expected to be enlightened. I was.

For a parent, said the speaker, the hardest thing about early contact with a child who has just left for college, is hearing the struggle in their voice over an experience they didn't ask for.

"Give your child their mistakes," was her advice, reminding us that it is our mistakes rather than our success that we learn from. Every mistake we fix for them, she added, robs them of a consequence which might have yielded  important information to a successful life.

The parting advice:  "Give your child their lives. When you get that call, listen to their woe until they've finished speaking. And then don't board a plane, or drive to the campus, or do anything else to rescue them. Ask, 'And what will you do about that?'" 

Then, listen.

This matters. Listening is easier said than done, and many people think they're listening when they're really waiting for a turn to speak. I've done both. Real listening generates a spontaneous, heartfelt response, not a planned one. There isn't better advice for the parent of an outbound high school senior, anywhere. Don't rescue. Just listen.

It strikes me that our children learn to grow up the way we learn how to parent:  with high expectations and with courage to face the experiences they didn't ask for. Giving ourselves advice, and then following it, is a direct route to confidence.  

Sam and the rest of those incoming freshman will fill their own libraries with volumes of lessons learned if they're allowed to. Someday, they will accompany our grandchildren to an orientation, and want to leave them with a few choice selections from those shelves. Their gracious children will accept them politely, find a place for them where they won't be in the way, and not look at them again.   

At first.

Okay, Patriots, here's my heart. Don't drop it.

I have never been a patient spectator of sports. They take too long to play, and because I’ve been a non-spectator for a long time, there’s too much back story to ever catch up. I have this level of sports-love in common with about ten or twelve people in the United States.

It isn’t like I’m insulated. Inside the boy-house where I live, the sports presence is nearly year-round. The boys refer to people by their last names and describe behaviors I’ve never heard of.  They punctuate their running spectator commentaries as they watch a game with abrupt, spirited yelling. The intonation of an announcer’s voice over the din of a crowd, the exuberant swearing at disappointing plays, and the horns (or whatever they’re called) which bleat for no apparent reason are all usual sounds. 

No matter. Non-spectators like myself are not drawn by proximity to such activity. Nor do we want to change the activity. Non-spectators like myself have learned to deal with proximity to such activity by changing the proximity. Make a deposit, get the car washed, fill the tank, buy groceries. Non-spectators start Monday mornings with bright eyes and very short to-do lists.

Occasionally, however, there are exceptions. Occasionally it’s necessary to know something about a particular championship because if you don’t, you will feel the way you would if you didn’t know who was running for president.  You will go to work and have to endure endless references to some game, some play, and people will look in your direction from time to time with sympathy, as though you’ve just arrived from another planet without language skills or limbs.  Occasionally, even if you use the endless hours perched before a sporting event to think through unsolved problems, organize your next project, shop Ann Taylor online from your phone, or plan the week’s menus, it’s still necessary to walk into work armed with a sound bite or two.

And, the truth?  It’s lonely belonging to such a tiny minority of non-spectators.  And, the more important truth?  This year, “Our” team has a better than good chance of winning the Superbowl.  I more than should know about this. I want to know.

Lucky me, I live with a sportswriter who can explain anything and a seventeen-year-old who can illustrate anything on a post-it for easy, later review. A couple of weeks ago, I approached them.

“What is this championship all about and who’s involved?”

In seconds, one showed me a table of the six best in both the AFC and the NFC as well as the “ones to watch” in the anticipated play-offs. The other had drawn tiny pictures of Ray Lewis and Ed Reed on a post-it along with their descriptions: “psycho machine boss,” and “fast and skinny.”

 I began to understand. Only a little faster than the pace at which grass grows, but still - I began to understand.

 “Wait,” I said. “Our Patriots could win this?”

God love them, they responded to this with silence.

So, I’ve been studying for the Patriots-Ravens game, asking questions and understanding the answers. For an hour last week, while I drove home from Boston alone, I listened to 107.7 to learn how the Texans did against the Ravens, knowing “Our Patriots” would have an easier time of it if they faced off against Yates.

Yes, I know who Yates is.

It’s worth asking yourself to the party sometimes.  It’s worth asking to be taught something you don’t know but will know well if you try. And tomorrow, I not only want this game to go right, I want to participate in the excitement if it does. On Monday, when I go into work, I want to hear someone say, “How about those Patriots?” and not get involved with something else when someone responds.

And next year, when I feel less like a novice, I will call them “Pats” like everyone else in the United States does, except for those ten or twelve.

But for now, Go Patriots. Don’t make me sorry for loving you.

Everything is Just Right Now

Like everyone else, I’ve been busy these past few weeks tending to Everything. Recently I got a call which made me think about Everything Else. The timing was perfect. I didn’t want to come back empty-handed and now I have gifts.

The call came from one of the few people who knew my husband and me before we were married. He has stayed in touch with my husband. This call was to catch up with me. It was like running under water to compose my thoughts after hearing his voice but while I did that, he filled me in.

In the two years that have just passed, he was diagnosed with, and treated for, a type of cancer that could have killed him in months. After he completed treatment, his wife asked him for a divorce.

Fate can be a python.

Instead of allowing himself to be swallowed whole, my friend decided to prepare for the ironman competition – a quest that would require of him, the very things jeopardized by his illness: strength, focus, heart and spirit ++++. He only wanted to participate, he said, maybe finish. A week before the competition, he moved out of his house.

“There were trials and tribulations,” he said, “but that’s what life is.”

If I was troubled about anything before that call, I can’t remember what it was.

Later, I went to my vault of Everything Life Is to add my friend’s observation. While I was in there, I poked through my other Everythings and realized – my stash is damn impressive, even if it didn't come free.


And then I thought about Everyone on my list who I love, for whom I would do anything, and to whom I might offer something I’ve learned the hard way. Something that might fit perfectly, might last, and which, Someday, might be passed on to someone else.

Here are your gifts.

It’s just right now.

No matter what you feel or experience, no matter how wonderful or awful, it’s just right now. Sooner or later, what you feel or have experienced will be eclipsed by something else. Wait out the bad days, savor the good ones. Neither will last, they are just right now.  And, of course, be glad you’re not an Eeyore who can’t tell the difference between 
a good day and a bad one.

Respect trying times.

We become the things we should be when we cope with what we didn’t ask for. Sometimes there’s no other way. Appreciate your occasional trials, and unwrap them gently.They come with rewards in the middle.

Regrets are useless. 
If you get mired in guilt and regret from time to time, remember that vision improves with time, while reasons and motives disappear with age. You’ve made mistakes, you’ve learned from them, and probably you’ve become a more understanding person, parent, friend, sibling or spouse because of them. Now imagine your regrets are big colorful balloons. Open your imaginary window, open your imaginary hand and let them go into the imaginary sky.  The world needs you the way you are.

Banish jealousy.

Allow yourself to be happy for someone who accomplishes something that you can’t, haven’t, won’t, or just won’t right now.  Your own moment will come. It might not look like you thought it would, but it will be worth showing off, and the timing will make sense.  Beautiful, brilliant people often get the things you wish you could have yourself, but not necessarily the things that would make them complete. Be happy for them.

Be the Neighbor.

This is part two of  "Never miss an opportunity to shut up." Don't factor your own feelings into things which have nothing to do with you. If you feel affected  - disappointed, or surprised, or frustrated or worried – by something your husband, child, friend, parent, sibling or co-worker did (but didn’t do to you) think about how you would react if you were a neighbor, with nothing at stake emotionally.  It might make your brain tired to accept without approving, but it's worth it if it keeps you from being a person around whom others edit themselves. Don't personalize. Be the neighbor.

Take on something bigger.

Kick the crap out of your little problems by solving a bigger one. Like This.

Dream, don’t escape.

Some people want things and get them and that’s good. Some people need to want things and that’s bad. Station-changing is a way to keep moving until it prevents attachment. You brought yourself to where you are. Give something to it, take something from it and when you need something else, know what it is and slowly, but with determination, make it happen.

My friend did participate in the competition, and did finish. And then he fell in love. From what I can glean after scrutinizing his Facebook photos (stop it, you do it too) she is a ridiculously beautiful woman who, from his description, is equally accomplished, kind, wise and savvy. And while I think its wonderful that she speaks five languages, has travelled the world, and wants for little, mostly, I am grateful that she appears to be gentle.  He’s flown high and deserves a soft landing.

A happy, peaceful New Year to all. May you have Everything for which you have mustered the heart and courage to ask, may you know you deserve that and more, and may you appreciate your time on this planet and make it count +++.  It is just right now.

Love, Susan

Godspeed, teenager.

If it’s hard to live with, understand, communicate with, provide for, and know a teenager, there’s one thing that I believe is harder still, and that is to be one.

I’m not talking about all teenagers of course. There are the outliers who blow through peacefully, who visit the elderly, floss regularly, volunteer at crisis centers, and remember our birthdays. And there are teenagers who are raising themselves because their own parents can’t grow up and take the wheel. 

I’m talking about the other kind. The ones who respond to your smile with a look in the other direction, who deal with a question like “what time will you be home?” as though they can’t possibly be expected to know that, who make a show of trying to comprehend you, who leave the room when you appear, and who talk to you with such obvious patience you wonder when you became dense. Those teenagers.

About ten years ago, when we were all at different stages in teenager-parenting, a friend said to me about his own fifteen-year-old daughter (and may I pause here to say, few things are as fearsome as a fifteen year old girl):

“She acts like it’s the worse thing in the world to be part of this family.” 

“Put yourself in her shoes,” I said.

“Yeah,” he said, “You’re right. It’s hard to live in a nice house, have parents who care about you, send you to study abroad, buy you all the clothes you want, give you an allowance. That must be awful.”

Before he could add the equally irrelevant, “When I was fifteen, (hardship here)…” I said, “It’s still easier to be you.”

Those of us who remember our younger years as the easiest, forget that teenagers had younger and easier years too, when life was scripted for them and solving a problem was a matter of finding someone in the house who was older and taller.

Then they hit middle school and lose the map. And then, because they want to and also, because if they don’t, they will become Dwight from The Office, teenagers begin to shed those carefully structured lives while we wonder what is bothering them.

They deserve our sympathy.

For a teenager – and I don’t mean the outliers who walk dogs at the SPCA, or sell drugs behind the grocery store – every day is a fill in the blank quiz:  who to talk to, what to say, how to act, what their friends will think, who they like but must shun, who they don’t like but must appease, what they lose by being honorable, what they gain by being cruel. They cling to their values and dissect them at the same time.They assess themselves not on the basis of accomplishment, but in the headlight of a single bad day.

They become secretive. They become sullen. They become  unreasonable and defensive and indignant and fickle and abominably shallow. They know how to keep us at bay, but behind our backs, they monitor and supervise their progress on the new path, chastising themselves mercilessly for missteps and scrutinizing their failures in ways so harsh it would make us cry.

They deserve our compassion.

We try to help because we think we remember being fifteen but really, we only remember selectively, because we offer the same advice we never used: “If she’s that mean, don’t be her friend anymore.”  Or, the equally useless, “Bullies want attention. Ignore them and they’ll leave you alone.” Teenagers don’t want to be alone.

If we’re new at this, we wonder two things here: what we did to drive them away, and what we can do to bring them back. It took me a child or two to realize that a teenager’s behavior is not a direct product of our influence, or some measure of our skills. Skills have nothing to do with it because teenagers don’t drift away. They leave in the night and send in replacements. We get up in the morning and there they are with their “why are you looking at me like that” faces. Meanwhile, their siblings, little hidden cameras that they are, watch and think this is “awesome” – a teacher’s copy of where the holes lie in the terrain.

"We used to be us," said a friend of mine once, about her teenager's refusal to be who he was.

I have raised four children I enjoy being around, and around whom, others like to be.  They laugh, they cry, they text me with funny observations, they stop to pet the cat when they’re busy. They tell me a lot about their lives but not everything. They use expressions which I purposely butcher so they will always have cause to mock me.  They miss each other, they love their friends, they look forward to the future.

But at some point in each of their lives, after some row in which one of us said something painful, regrettable, desperate, I watched them leave the room, finally understanding that the “someday” when they will begin to leave me, had arrived. 


By the time we were down to one and I was being friended on Facebook by our three former teenagers, I had come to see these years as a tunnel.

“You know, you’re almost fifteen,” I said to our last teenager, a while back. “Any day now, you’ll be in the tunnel. Please empty the dishwasher and pick up your room while you still like me. Thank you.”

Take heart, parents of tunnel dwellers. It is a short journey, even if it seems endless. They hear and see you out there at the entrance but it stays in sight for a brief time. Then, for what seems like a chilly, gray eternity they see neither the beginning nor the end, and your voice will be muted and hard to place. But sometime in the senior year, they will emerge like miners. They will discover that somewhere in the long silence you scrambled ahead to wait for them. And when they hit college, where they will have their independence handed to them like a dorm room key, it will not be a path too overwhelming to navigate, but a test they’re ready to take, because we will have let them prepare. 

And that’s what they deserve, most of all. Time to prepare.

Godspeed.