Mothers and Other Such Things

The dog was a puppy just a little while ago, full of romp and jump and dash away. But now she tires easily and is pooching out and growing teats and in a few weeks I imagine she will recline with her little parasites and go, Where the hell did these come from? Then I will have to escape-proof the yard.

Mother’s Day is a weird one to me – okay, all holidays are weird to me anymore. The only one that makes sense is Halloween. That and Yule, when we light great bonfires and drink and dance and fornicate under the holly -– wait, that was a long time ago. Don’t you hate when memories of past lives blur together? Anyway, this ultimate greeting-card holiday has always been one of organizing my troops into shopping and cooking teams and making The Day into something flowery and loving. This year will be similar. But it’s the last! Young men, they are, and young men should not live with their parents. Next year one of them won’t, who knows, maybe both.

Why’s it weird to me? At some deep fundamental level where belly meets brain, I guess because mothers don’t make sense to me. Put that down to my particular circumstances. We all have particular circumstances, of course, and a lot of them have to do with mothers. Mine are nothing unusual, and since my mother reads this (Hi Mom!) I’m not going to launch a long speculative screed exploring my intercrossing feelings on the matter. I love her (You!) and at this point nothing else much matters. But I’m not the only one with snakes intertwined where the greeting cards would give us bland platitudes. My wife loves but especially hates her mother, and for many excellent reasons, and the past week has been dominated by telephone arguments over my mother-in-law trying to weasel out of attendance at her grandson’s high school graduation out of some ignorant fear of catching the swine flu on an airplane.

Thank you Joe Biden.

The complications arise of course because there are conflicting emotions: It’s your grandson! … Wait, you mean I never have to see you again? Balance one against the other … But of course she must come, because she must, that’s the way it is, and so (she now says) she shall. We’ll see. I hope so but I’ll not miss the bitch if otherwise.

Grandson is neutral about it, being as the grandma showed clear favoritism towards the other brother for most of his childhood, and he’s absorbed more than enough of his mother’s angry-sad tears over not having a “real mother” when something or other happens; yet she’s not an actual monster, even attempts humor sometimes, and of course he loves her as a grandmother of just about any type cannot help but be loved. So, fine, we’ll see. Mostly he’s just happy to be growing up. Let me count the ways.

No, I won’t count. But the past few weeks have been amazing. Last night – I’m still absorbing last night. You know, you have to get all your Eagle Scout stuff done by midnight before you turn eighteen or all that hard work is for nothing. Badges, the project, write-ups, forms, interviews, signatures … There is a blur of requirements and we have known many young men who were working at it right up to their last day as a seventeen year old – and a few who did not finish in time, and sometime down the road will look back and kick themselves for it, hard. I’ve had this huge check-off in mind for months. Will it all get done? All of it? Truly? In time? Much suspense, believe me.

Last night he drove around and met with various leaders and got signatures and handed stuff in and was able to tell me that everything that has to be done before he turns eighteen … is done. No more deadline.

No more deadline.

You see? I’m still absorbing and would like to write that a few more times but for your sake, I will not. It’s just … No more deadline. (!)

And just last week they struck the set of the school play in which he had the Raymond Massey role, and the week before that the yearbook for which he was editor-in-chief was complete and sent off to the presses, and this week he completed his senior project, and, oh, I could build it up but the point is, all that stuff that he has been juggling is done now. No more deadline! Just a few weeks of high school to finish up, turn eighteen meanwhile, and … no more childhood.

No more childhood.

Maybe you were wondering what this part has to do with Mother’s Day? Of course you weren't. When we’ve whelped, I’ll post pics.