As yet unfinished

He is taller than me now.

Not just his hair, which is big and tight-curled and easily gives him a couple of extra inches. And not just because he stretches himself out, lifting his chin and bouncing on the balls of his feet, eager to have this bit of supremacy over me. No-- he is taller because he has grown, at least a handful of inches in the last month or three.

On the day he was born, as soon as the nurses had cleaned and swaddled him, his father-- trembling with the wonder and awe of it-- held this small child who lay so trustingly in his large and calloused hands. He lifted our son high, as if to show the boy's face to God, and then slowly, with aching tenderness, he cradled our son against his heart and danced.

I can see the infant that he was, like an after-image superimposed in the air next to him, closerthanthis, as if from a too-bright flash. God, but he was small when he was born! A tiny little thing, just over six pounds and only 18 inches long, he fit so easily on his baby blanket when I folded it into fourths. He barely fits on his bed now, sprawling in his sleep to take possession of all the available surface.

From infant to adolescent in the beat of a heart, the blink of an eye. He carries the entire procession of image and experience with him: the day he took his first step; the gash on his knee when he learned, much to his surprise, about falling; first words, first friend, first loss; the daily tedium flecked with bits of exhilaration.

There have been an infinity of firsts (and seconds and thirds), he has learned some, and played some, been bored and exultant and defiant and curious. There is an eager, impatient momentum that surrounds him. He carries this all-- this life, his life-- a gathering, expectant spiral, shot through with his father's fierce joy, a celebration of love and pride. There is some of me as well: the dreamer, the seeker, the cynic.  This is the warp and weft of him, a tapestry of knotted thread.

It is complex and unfinished, just like him.

These days, the threads bear less the imprint of his father or me than of an almost thoughtless mix all his own, of twisted color and varying weights. He weaves together the comfortable and known threads of his childhood, and now, in a syncopated stutter step that becomes more sure every day--  something wholly his own: a variation on a theme, at once familiar and new, becoming a different story altogether.

It is breathtaking. Just like him.

Once upon a time, in a land that was long ago and far away, I would say "Hold my hand, baby. The street is busy. I don't want you to get hurt." He's a teenager now. He's tugging away, rushing towards the busyness of his day. Of his life. I can still feel the memory of his touch, his small hand in mine, eyes wide and a smile so sweet it could break your heart. We walked together, ambling along a winding path. We taught one another-- about patience, about God, about kindness and love.

Always love. His for me, me for him, every breath, every word, every touch-- it was, ever and always, a lesson in love: unconditional and infinite. Was it enough? Will it be enough to carry him through as he steps off onto a diverging road that only occasionally intersects with my own?

"Hold my hand, baby. I don't want you to get hurt."

He will, though. He will get hurt and be heartbroken. He will be lifted by hands not my own, and find healing and grace where I have never thought to look. He will tell his own stories, grand and glorious and filled with everything he carries with him-- his father's fierceness, his mother's dreams, his own precious threads that he discovers and creates and borrows. All of it, a knotted, twisted tapestry, as yet unfinished.

All of it-- unfinished, unfolding. His.

To my beloved boy, Nate, upon his graduation from middle school

June 2013

Growing Up, Growing Old(er)

When I was in sixth grade, I read a dog-eared copy of Judy Blume's Are You There, God? It's Me, Margaret. I found it in the school library, plain as day, but felt as if I should hide it (if not between butcher paper, then at least somewhere in the stacks, away from the prying eyes of the sixth grade boys). It was my guilty secret, a prepubescent Philosopher's Stone. Here at last, an unexpurgated and honest telling of my truest desire: Please God-- let me get my period. 

In a word (ok, in seven words): Please God, let me grow up. Now.

I was so quick to want to grow up. To be a woman. To be older. To skip adolescence altogether and race right into the next phase of my life. I was ready, and had been since fifth grade, when we got the first Talk; boys in one room, girls in the other. I have no idea what they said to the boys, but we girls got the Miracle of Life speech, the Changing Body speech, the Hormones and Pimples and Babies (oh my!) speech. 

All I could think was PleasepleasepleaseNOW! 

And it happened. Soon, or now, or close enough to not matter. I grew up, got older, moved from child to adolescent to woman in the blink of an eye, all with a stately and inexorable rhythm.

I think of this now, as I squint to read the not-so-fine print of my book or listen to the creaking of my  knees as I unbend less than gracefully getting out of my car. The infinity of my youth has finally given way to the dictates of entropy. 

I am old. Older. I am not sure if I am willing to concede the mantle of my youth quite yet, and trade it in for a lap blanket and rocking chair. I will not go gently into the afternoon, let alone that dark, dark night.  The sad truth, though, is that while I may rage against the dying of the light, the stranger that greets me in the mirror every day is fine with the dying of the hair. And it must be that stranger; it certainly can't be me. 

I remember looking at my mother (with all the condescension that only a twenty-something can muster for her ancient parent) when she declared she needed to have Work Done (the capital letters clearly underscoring her words).  She talked not just of hennas and highlighting, but of lifting and tucking and cutting. There were diets to follow and Exercycles to be bought (Not actually pedaled, however. Apparently, we lived within a magical force field where just owning exercise equipment was enough to realize its toning potential). Suddenly, there were creams and unguents littering her bathroom shelves, where once there had been suntan oil and cigarettes.

I listened to her, nodding and smiling (and hoping my derision was almost hidden well enough to make her think twice), thinking that I would never - never - stoop to such lows. I swore to myself that I would march proudly into my age, wear my wrinkles and folds and sagging flesh with pride. I will have earned those wrinkles and folds, damn it, every last one of them. I will be careworn and weathered because I will have lived my life to the very edges, never shrinking from adventure or passion. I would never cave to societal pressures or sadistic ideals of beauty.

She was at least a decade younger than I am now when she first made her declaration. Ugh. I felt no compassion for my mother, only pity. 

So now, I have grown into my age. The face in my mirror is barely recognizable at times. Those aren't wrinkles; they are chasms. There is paunch and spread. It is harder to see, harder to sleep. There are times when it seems as if I will spontaneously combust. I have conditions, and sometimes those conditions have conditions. I can no longer travel without carrying a pharmacy in my bag.

My body hurts, dammit. It creaks and aches and doesn't listen to my wheedling demands (as if it ever did, but at least way back then, it played nice and snapped back into shape with relative ease). There are now creams and unguents on my bathroom counter, along with appointments for highlights and hennas on my calendar.

This is not my body. This cannot be me. Can it?

When I was 11, reading Judy Blume, I wanted my period, wanted to be a Woman. Now? Funny: when I started to write this, I could have sworn it was going to be a scathingly sarcastic ode to menopause and aging. I could have sworn I was going to wax rhapsodic on wanting just ten more minutes of a different body-- younger, and firmer, more fit, more beautiful, more me-- the me I carry in my head.

Here's a surprise: I thought wrong. I wish less for something that I am not (for something that may never have been and certainly will never be again), and hope more for blessings and grace. And so I offer, not sarcasm, but a prayer:

God of infinite love and boundless grace, Let me see that the truest beauty is found in forgiveness, a kind heart and a gentle soul. Let me live a life that matters, with boldness and courage and faith-- which are far sexier than perfect skin or a toned body. These aches and pains and wrinkles that seem to have taken up permanent residence are not evidence of defeat, but my medals of honor of a life lived-- sometimes well, sometimes not, but lived, in all its messy glory.

When I was young, I wanted to be old(er). Now that I am, please, God, let me be myself.