For lack of a better way to put this, Thursday afternoon, my household experienced a swirl. At one moment, too many things—some big, some smaller, some happy, some sad, and one totally unexpected—converged and roiled all at once.
**
Oh, it was hot, as in a really muggy July-at-the-start-of-June afternoon.
For reasons unknown, the toddler had awoken uncharacteristically early (5:15) that morning and for reasons known—the night before sixth-grade graduation, visiting grandmother, and a play rehearsal—no one went to sleep early, including the parents. Then, the adorable, overtired toddler had fallen asleep sprawled on the couch sporting her hot pink snow boots for just shy of an hour (a not long enough nap). So, there was a cranky toddler in the household.
Now, imagine a most articulate seven year-old distraught about his brother and his very close pal Kate (and other beloved sixth grader pals) graduating from the elementary school (i.e. leaving the place behind, and him in it). Add to his frustrations a host of “horrible” first grade-related incidents that didn’t appear terribly upsetting (including that his parents attended his poetry reading, despite his having told them to stay away) and imagine this little boy sitting on the driveway just… so… mad.
The evening before, he’d returned from dinner at his pal’s house and declared: “When Kate goes to PVPA (her new school), she won’t get home until FIVE O’CLOCK.” Picture his blue eyes widening for emphasis, round like marbles. Since the adults had been thinking about this fact for quite some time, I had answers at the ready: Not every single day will she get home so late. She won’t have homework. But before those words sprung forth, my little guy—so very bright and resourceful—offered, “Well, weekends.”
Right then, however, the bad mama who attended the Poets’ Café was sitting beside him on the hot pavement with a snack of cereal and pretzels and he was hurling pretzels to the birds and eating organic honey-nut O’s and reminding his mama what a poor listener she was and how he’d had music (his least favorite class) and how he didn’t want more writing and more reading and more music in second grade.
Go ahead sigh.
**
Imagine (I still can’t) that the eldest child grabbed your arm and hauled you toward the computer in his study—stepping over papers and worn socks—because he’d seen breaking news that a beloved mentor had been arrested. The charges were serious. Like one of those oil plumes in the Gulf, in an instant, things felt slick and dark and infinitely sullied—regardless of the facts, regardless of clean-up potential. What had seemed simple suddenly couldn’t be, no matter how the story unfolds. It was one of those moments when, as a parent, you realize you cannot shield your child from the harshness of our frailties. Sure, I already knew that parents are unable to provide all the answers. This was different, though. In that dumbfounded and complicated and profoundly confusing discovery, we were vaulted into the adult-to-adult ranks. There won’t be an opportunity for simplification here.
From the visiting grandmother’s lap, the overtired toddler cried out for her mama.
The hours-from-graduating son was still with his pal, Kate (the same Kate the seven year-old mourns moving to a new school). What the mama wanted more than anything: to pour much-deserved attention in his direction, to celebrate. Friends were due to arrive for a quick supper before the long, hot, glorious ceremony. His agenda was to include bathing, putting on nice clothes and picking a flower to carry into the ceremony, enjoying supper with friends and family.
Four hours of sleep plus heat plus thirst plus hunger plus shock plus kids’ distress isn’t the best combination under better circumstances; it was dizzying just then.
Over the next hour, though, I drove the teenager to the opening performance of the play he’s working on (assistant stage manager) and explained that I wasn’t calm, I was stunned. I affirmed these truths: innocent till proven guilty, we can’t believe this, we’ll reach out to support our friends, we just have to wait to know more, we’re stunned and rightly upset and worried. After that, my seven year-old and I hopped on our bikes and rode into town (to the new frozen yogurt joint, our current most favorite place). Bike ride plus GoBerry plus mama doing what you want equaled a happier seven year-old (phew!).
Swirl quieted.
As for the rest: toddler and her grandmother headed down the street to visit her best pal. Graduate was supported in grooming by his papa. Grandfather picked up sushi. Friend brought salad. Graduate picked out a yellow iris. Other grandmother and another friend came to supper. Mama and graduate walked over early; others joined them at the appointed time. During the ceremony, the graduate looked serious and proud.
**
The rest except this: all that uncertainty in regards to the arrest will hover weighted like humidity in the valley in the summertime. It’s going to feel sticky.
In a legal situation, there exists due process. I was struck reading this quote: “Between a high, solid wall and an egg that breaks against it, I will always stand on the side of the egg.” No surprise, I tend to stand with the egg, but I don’t always. In its way, my uneasiness, my grief for everyone involved should help me find a way to hold onto—not grasp, as in understand—hold onto, as in wrap arms and heart around this fragility I seek to live with and to help my children live with, too.
