It's Official. I'm the Worst Mother in the World

Two weeks ago I dropped my one and only child off at college and I haven’t looked back. I’ve called him once — just once! —  to make sure he was alive. (He is.) But otherwise I haven’t obsessed or worried or even shed a tear. There must be something fatally wrong with me. Right?

1st day of kindergarten

For years, I dreaded the day Jack would leave my home and go off to college. Sure, I wanted my son to succeed, but the thought of my only kid leaving me made me queazy. 

This was the boy I taught to fish and play tennis, spent untold hours reading bedtime stories, playing Hot Wheels and building elaborate tracks for Thomas the Tank Engine. But thankfully, children grow up slowly -- and there's this thing called puberty that really helps you detach, or at least put some distance between you and your son's stinky feet.

In January, when Jack was accepted to his first-choice college, Auburn, with an academic scholarship to boot, reality kicked in. My son was leaving me behind to begin living a life that largely would not include me. The thought made me sad. 

But then I realized … it was just a thought. And a thought in and of itself  has no power over me — or shouldn’t — unless I give it power. And often I do. 

My thought goes like this: “Jack is leaving me behind! He doesn’t need me anymore. I will be alone.” But that’s not true. Yes, my son is leaving to go to college, and I am not going to move into his dorm room with him. (And everyone is really happy about that.) And he doesn’t need me anymore in the way he did when he was younger. (Thank God.) Nor will he be living under my roof 24/7. (Again, thank you!) 

A more accurate thought is this: “Jack is moving towards his own goals and dreams which don’t need to include me, which is healthy. And I am moving towards my goals and dreams which don’t always include him, which is also healthy.” (The “I will be alone” statement is just over-the-top melodrama. I mean, I could be alone if I want to be alone, but that’s also a choice I make.)

When it comes down to it, all my attitudes are a choice. I can choose to look at a turn of events as a loss or a gain. I can choose to be happy for my son and for myself in this new stage of our lives, or I can choose to be nostalgic and maudlin. Why would I want to choose to be miserable when my son is experiencing a sense of accomplishment? Why would I want to dwell on the negative when it’s just as easy to find the good? 

First day of college

Last Wednesday, as I made the two hour drive home from Auburn after depositing Jack and his worldly goods on campus, I considered how easy it would be to feel sad. But I chose to feel satisfied, contented, even happy for him and for myself. After all, sending a kid to college is a great accomplishment even under the best conditions; and we had, shall I say, our share of challenges along the way. 

So no, I’m not sad about Jack’s departure. I don’t feel lonely or depressed. The dreaded day came and went and I’m relieved and happy that he’s on his way to adulthood. I almost feel guilty for not feeling sad. Almost. Instead I’m happy with the knowledge that our lives are unfolding exactly as they should. This is what Buddhists call non-attachment. Although it may sound crass it is actually a form of unconditional love. Imagine that?

I certainly didn’t always make the best choices as Jack was growing up. In fact, I made some really bad ones along the way. But somehow it seems that maybe, just maybe, I’m not the worst mother in the world after all.

Shopping for One-ness

Today, for the first time in 24 years I grocery shopped for one. 

It's been 24 years since I've been without a husband or child in the house. Almost a quarter of a century since I made purchases that were solely for my consumption. During that time, there's no telling how many hundreds of  trips I've made to the grocery store always thinking of one person or another. 

Today was different.

I thought shopping only for myself might be depressing, but today I strolled the aisles studying the produce and happily picking out mushrooms, heirloom tomatoes, arugula, corn, avocados and limes as though I was shopping for the first time. As I loaded the cart with Kettle chips, goat cheese, a small piece of salmon, a petite ribeye steak, and a bag of roasted almonds, I was very conscious of the fact that the only person I had to please was me. And I was very pleased.

How many decisions did I make in the past 24 years to please someone else? How many times did I walk down the aisles of life ignoring my own taste, setting aside my principles, or not considering my goals because someone else's seemed to matter more? I'll answer that for you: Too many.

There's nothing wrong with taking others into consideration when making decisions. As a parent, you have to do that all the time. But if I'm subjugating my own preferences in relationships, then I need to examine my motives. Because, in my experience, when I do something that is outside of my principles, I end up resenting the other person for it -- as well as resenting myself.  

Case in point: All of my adult life, I've loved mushrooms but when I married and discovered that my husband didn't share my feelings for fungi, I stopped preparing dishes that called for them. Granted, I didn't really care that much about mushrooms, but it was a little thing that I denied myself because of someone else's opinion. There were bigger ways I deferred my preferences and tastes in that marriage, and eventually those differences became insurmountable. In the end, I resented my ex for so many things I denied myself. And I realize now that wasn't his fault. It was mine. 

So today as I perused the isles at Aldi, filling my cart with single-sized portions and items that only I would eat, I felt a glimmer of freedom. For the first time in a very long time, I realized the satisfaction that comes from being one and whole. 

 

August 21, 2020

Walkers Gotta Walk

By now you'd have to be brain dead, or at least way, way off the grid, to not have heard about the phenomenon that is AMC's The Walking Dead. The series about the post-apocolpytic world run amuck with zombies — eh, Walkers, as they are called in the show— has lifted the interest of some 17 million viewers during it's Season 5 premiere. That's a lot of (live) viewers, 2.5 million more, in fact than watched Sunday's NFL  match up on network television, according to the Nielsen ratings. Why in the world would 17 million people want to watch a TV series about the gruesome end of the world as we know it? Well, I have my theories.

The Walking Dead is the latest in a popular TV series genre that throws a variety of sympathetic and unsympathetic characters into a fictional extreme circumstance to see just how far they will go to stay alive. A few years ago, ABC's Lost was a very successful example of this brand of survivalist drama. (By comparison, for its fifth season premiere, Lost, drew a paltry 11.35 million viewers, according to lostpedia.wilia.com.) Although the survivors turned against each other from time to time, at least Lost had its share of philosophic overtures about the meaning of life and death. (The island outpost was called the Dharma Project, hello!) The very dark world of The Walking Dead may pose a problem for spiritual practitioners of any denomination. I mean, it is hard to find any sense of redemption in a world that's overrun by non-sentient beings. 

A zombie horde in AMC's The Walking Dead.

In the initial episodes we learned that a virus is the cause of the mayhem. At first, it's thought that it is transmitted via the bite or scratch of an infected person, but as the show progresses, turning zombie is an inevitability brought on by a little factor called death. Everyone is infected and it's only a matter of time before you die and transform into a flesh-eating wraith with one and only one response motivation: consume other beings. There is no thought to this action, no malice, nor prejudice, nor merit. It's not personal. Walkers gotta walk. Killing is a pure craving that cannot be sated. And yet, as we enter the series' fifth season, it's clear that the dead are not nearly as disturbing as the living.

The racist mob in the Universal Pictures' film
To Kill A Mockingbird.

In the world of TWD, society as we know it has shut down — literally unplugged overnight. It's hard for me to wrap my head around what our world would look (and act) like if that were to happen. Our reliance on electronic communications systems, fossil fuel, infrastructures, technology and manufacturing renders us rather helpless when those things are systematically taken away. We are all so interdependent that collapse becomes inevitable. With no one to run Google, man the latte machines, and repair the DSL, our society crumbles and what is left — humans without a system of checks and balances — is really scary. And yet, that world existed here in the South more than 50 years ago.

Over the summer (while TWD was on hiatus) Jack and I did something radical. In the evenings we put down our electronic devices ... and read a book. And not an e-book, mind you, but a real, live paperback version of a classic, To Kill A Mockingbird. I had not read the novel since I was in high school. At first Jack resisted since the book seemed like ancient history and didn't feature boy wizards or zombies, but to humor me (and extend his bedtime by 30 minutes,) he acquiesced. Now it is all I can do to keep him from reading ahead. Yes, the content contains some mature situations and language, but sharing this book with Jack has become one of the most important deliberate acts of parenting I've accomplished.

As it turns out, Jack is the exact age of Jem Finch, one of the central characters. The story is told by Jem's younger sister, Scout, which makes the tale highly relatable to my inquisitive 12-year-old. Harper Lee's portrayal of the children's loss of innocence is one of the most beautiful accounts I've read in literature. As their father, Atticus, defends a black man (Tom Robinson) accused of raping a white woman, the children see a side of their tranquil southern town they didn't know existed.  In the late 1930s (when the story is set) the penalty for such a crime was sure and certain death—and often not via the US judicial system.

In one poignant scene, Jem and Scout seek out their father, who is sitting vigil in front of the jail where Tom Robinson is being held the night before the trial. They witness a lynch mob threaten Atticus if he doesn't step away from the door to allow them to take the alleged assailant. Driven by fear and hatred, the mob is bent on taking justice into their own hands. As a group, they set aside their individual humanity and assume a sense of collective righteousness. Things seem dire until Scout innocently speaks to one of the mobsters (the father of a classmate), and reawakens his humanness by reminding him that he, too, is a father. The mob disbands without completing their intended mayhem. The following day, Atticus explains what happened:

"Every mob in every little Southern town is always made of of people you know—doesn't say much for them, does it? ... It took an eight year old child to bring 'em to their senses didn't it? That proves something—that a gang of wild animals can be stopped, simply because they're still human."

Harper Lee published To Kill A Mockingbird four years before the passing of the Civil Rights Act, which prohibited discrimination in public facilities and education. This amendment to our nation's constitution encouraged humans to "do the right thing," and was necessary to forward the civil liberties of Americans regardless of their ethnic background or skin color. Without the this Federal law, would people have integrated schools and businesses? Maybe. It certainly would have taken more time though. And, arguably, the sense of society we enjoy today would not have unfolded as it did without a higher power (our judicial system) setting the rules. Many people in this country wanted to uphold "liberty and justice for all," but may have needed a law to back them up.  Fear of consequences from those who wanted to maintain segregationist status quo might have silenced a lot of well-intentioned folks had it not been for the Civil Rights Act of 1964.

It seems humans create the power (in this case, our democracy) to help us do the very difficult things we cannot accomplish as individuals. We may not always agree on the rules established by our federal, state or local governments, but as we celebrate the 50th anniversary of the passing of this essential piece of legislature, it seems these entities are necessary to maintain a healthy and altruistic human nature.

Left to our own devices (and not mobile ones), humans will do some horrible stuff to each other in the name of survival. And that's what was demonstrated during the record-breaking season five premiere of The Walking Dead. Mankind, sans any sense of kindness, has turned upon itself, like the Ourovoros Ophis, the tail-eating snake, which appears throughout ancient cultures as symbol of the endless cycle of life and death — what the Buddhist call, samsara. Eternally, the snake consumes itself and must begin again. At this rate, it's hard to imagine what in the world will be left to consume by the series' sixth season.

I believe humans are, by nature, compassionate, but we need support to demonstrate compassion when things get tough. Sure, our world is far from perfect, but to think we would be better off without structure and a check-and-balance system is as crazy as the Governor believing his dear little, flesh-eating, zombie daughter will be restored to her Shirley Temple-like self. Perhaps that's the reason why millions of people tune in to The Walking Dead on Sunday nights. We need to be reminded of what can happen if we lose our humanity, and to be grateful for what we've got.

No Small Miracle

I used to think of miracles as rare, supernatural phenomenon that defied the laws of science and nature, like the person who survives a shipwreck and is washed up on shore with hardly a scratch ... or the transforming of water into wine. But I see now that miracles happen around me everyday — if I'm willing to see them as such. Among the greatest miracles of my life are my relationships with my friends.

We met by chance more than 30 years ago.

When I consider how many events had to line up perfectly for me to have met some of the most important people in my life, I'm rendered rather ... speechless. (For those who know me, that's saying something — or rather, not saying something.) Millions of actions both subtle and overt had to occur for me to "happen" to meet any one of my friends. And when I consider all the actions that my parents and grandparents and great-great-grandparents had to take in order for me to end up perfectly at a certain place and time to say, meet Christina in Little Rock, or Janet in Knoxville, or Lesley in Atlanta, or Sandi in Birmingham, the expounding factors really boggle my mind. 

I've often wondered why in the world I've been given so many awesome friends. One might argue that I just make friends easily, but I don't think it's that simple. I mean, why would I manage to become close friends with certain people and not others? There are a lot of wonderful people in the world, many of whom I will never meet, let alone forge a friendship. Turns out spiritual guru Eckhart Tolle has an answer. “Life will give you whatever experience is most helpful for the evolution of your consciousness," he writes in his best-selling book A New Earth. "How do you know this is the experience you need? Because this is the experience you are having at the moment." 

Apparently, the experience I need is to be surrounded by a lot of smart, funny, loving people. 

Recently, I spent a long weekend with a group of smart, funny, attractive, successful, loving people. They happen to be my six girlfriends from college. I've known these women for more than 30 years and being back among them is always a refreshing reminder of who I was and who I am. Our chance meeting on a college campus more than three decades ago was nothing short of miraculous. Somehow over the years, we've managed to not only stay in touch, but also remain close friends. Yes, there have been years when these get togethers have been difficult because I felt my life wasn't where it should be and I struggled seeing these friends who all seemed to have it all together. But now I see that even when my life was falling apart, the relationship we share was solid and abiding. No one judged me for my first — or even my second — divorce. Everyone was supportive when I resigned my job at Turner, and when I was downsized from Time. Being back among these women this year I particularly appreciated the walk-on-water phenomenon of our friendship.

Boys night out is a miracle too.

While I was lounging at the beach with my pals, another miracle was unfolding back home. I received evidence of it via text message on Saturday evening. My dear boyfriend Jason had taken Jack to Buffalo Wild Wings to watch the Alabama game. Afterwards they went back home for copious hours of MineCraft. And although I often take this relationship for granted, it too is a miracle — and not a small one.

More than two years ago, Jason entered my life in the same manner in which all my friends entered my life: totally unexpected, and with instant rapport. We just "hit it off."

What I could never have imagined is that Jason would also hit it off with my (then) ten year old son. I've seen all the awful movies about kids who resent their parent's new romance. I resigned myself to the fact that, even though I might have a boyfriend at some point, our dating would be relegated to weekend outings that did not include my son. I never dreamed I would stumble into a relationship with a man who loved my son and whom my son respected and loved back. In fact, it was Jack's idea for Jason to move in with us over a year ago when the lease to his condo expired.

"It would just be mean to not let Jason come live with us, Mom!" Jack said.

Lest I add to the pile of mean-Mom infractions I'd already accrued by that point, I happily acquiesced. Only later did I come to see that this intermingling of lives was nothing short of parting the Red Sea or the curing of malignant cells. No amount of holy water in Lourdes could have manifested the little family I now enjoy. Often when we sit down for dinner in the evenings I am humbled by this gift. This what I always wanted and more — and yet, I could never have made this happen. Even my ex-husband loves Jason! No, this is not of my doing. Not by a long-shot. Lazarus jumping up from the dead's got nothing on this.