Courtesy Liz Picco
We realized our decade long dream when we brought our toddler sons home from Ciudad Juárez, Mexico fifteen years ago. Amidst the stupefying demands of parenthood, we didn’t hesitate to fast forward to the first day of kindergarten right through high school graduation.
My eyes would go moist at the thought of our pint-sized boys heading out for elementary school and was moonstruck with pride as I envisioned strapping young men flipping their tassels, diplomas in hand.
Now, I’m sixty and, as an older mom, must confess to a persistent fantasy about their launch into the world since their good-natured personalities were hi-jacked in junior high. When they both reached high school, fireworks and braggadocio dominated my fanciful musings as the light at the end of the tunnel brightened.
My anticipation for them to move on isn’t grounded in a desire to remodel or reclaim more space. I’m an efficient soul and dislike shopping, unless it’s at the concession stand at a movie theater. It’s about privacy, stupid. Twenty-four/seven privacy. Wall-to-wall. Top to bottom. Luscious privacy that negates robes, closed doors, and the constant vigilance of expression, which reins in my impulsive nature.
I am one of eleven children who grew up in a bedroom with multiple bunk beds and brushed my teeth while my older sister showered and one of my younger sisters read out loud on the toilet. There wasn’t a lock in our house that couldn’t be picked, including my diary.
When I published Stretch Marks, my infertility and motherhood memoir, earlier this year, I remarked with cloying irony about my sons’ eminent launch. Our eldest was graduating from one of the best high school in the country and had been accepted to Cal State. My Man and I exhaled after eleven years and eight months of academics. It’s a heady sensation that softens the mind numbing, lip biting, years of schoolwork and fades the memory of our dining room trashed with the innards of backpacks, smelly feet, and snarky attitudes. Privacy was lapping at my feet.
With weeks to go, I was in think positive mode as our eldest complained of ‘senioritis’. I reminded my gentle giant that he’d had ‘senioritis’ since fifth grade.
Feeling done with shepherding my sons for over a decade, I passed the baton during my eldest’s senior year. Not that I was ever a perky helicopter mom dressed in my kids’ class colors to begin with. My signature colors were black and grey and I never divulged what committees or events I was involved in. I preferred the element of surprise.
I’d stepped back and a mirage materialized. Much like the undulating waves of air over scorching desert asphalt that projected an oasis, clear from afar, yet just slightly out of reach. I sent announcements and peacocked during his senior portrait session. All the while longing to have my mother at my side for the May ceremony where, if she were alive, she’d mightily celebrate with us what she’d managed, all on her own, to preside over ten times. Ten out of eleven high school diplomas ain’t bad.
Then with a single phone call, the oasis evaporated. Resolution became an illusion. The buzz of activity and excitement ended in a second.
No rights of passage. No celebration. No dorm to supply.
Our eldest remains on the pad.
We remained stunned. Angry. Sad.
These feelings roused twenty-year-old memories of losing our infant daughter to her birthmother. I cringed when the jolt of recriminations stormed through me, pinning me to the bed as the reality of our son’s choices reared up in my face.
On the third night when I awoke with a curdled puddle in my gut, I stared into the darkness. I recognized the familiar anger turning inward like razor sharp talons ready to expose my inadequacy. My failure. My screw up. The thought of privacy seemed frivolous.
Hours later. Spent and feeling unhinged, I heard my mother ’s most endearing saying, Cada cabeza es un mundo. She invariably prefaced it with a deep sigh, accompanied by a slight shake of her head to emphasize the mystery of someone else’s thoughts. My son had his own world to launch into. Not mine. This was not about my man or me.
Our eldest would go out into the world a few months later with less fanfare and accoutrements, but in the end does that truly matter as long as he takes stock of his world?
The sting of missing out on the celebration and my bragging rights has faded and been replaced by giddy joy at seeing my memoir in bookstores, receiving a five star review, and hearing from strangers how my story has helped them.
I continually remind myself to pay attention to the mystery of each person’s inner world. My son will become master of his. Meanwhile, I’m hoping that when privacy arrives, I’ll still have the brain cells to enjoy it.