Our son Will is moving, from his student apartment in Spartanburg to an upperclassmen dorm at Winthrop University. The transition is marked by boxes and crates, dirty laundry, and computer equipment painstakingly delivered to safe storage. Tomorrow, we will fill cars and make the two hour drive to Rock Hill to deposit everything that now sits in our hallways, our family room, our garage. Well, probably not everything. The boxes he leaves behind will remind us that he still calls this home.
Our children do tend to come and go. Will, of course, is still a student. Geoff works at Yellowstone National Parks and comes home for the extended closures that mark the seasonal transitions from wheeled vehicles to treaded vehicles for use on snow. Geoff’s visits home are commemorated by piles of ski bibs and boots in the spring and hiking boots and camping equipment in the fall.
George and I are headed for a move ourselves to what was once a Better Homes and Gardens feature home but is now a dilapidated abandoned house that we clearly see as a dream retirement home. The house waits to see the renovation that will mark its return to a home for a family that really wants it. We will have garage sales, make drop-offs at Goodwill, donate items to our favorite school, and throw out trash – lots and lots of stuff that once held some value in our lives. A lot of items won’t make the cut – resources for teaching careers, odd family plates, the few pairs of heels left in my wardrobe. We will ask our sons to help with our boxes and crates, leisure clothes favored by retirees, little boys’ pictures lovingly delivered to safe display, Legos for future grandchildren, and our faithful family dog who will patrol her new borders, bark at new neighbors, and delight in the number of squirrels just begging to be chased.
Showing posts with label parenting. Show all posts
Showing posts with label parenting. Show all posts
Tuesday, August 9, 2005
Sunday, August 11, 1991
Duck Tales
Yackey was our pet male duck – actually rather soft-spoken when compared to his mate. I always believed that he was henpecked. For years, I took my triumphs and my troubles to him because he didn’t mind being stroked and talked to - didn’t even mind tears dropping his back on my childhood’s darkest days. He and Fluffy stayed in the creek or rummaged in the neighbors’ yards until we came to feed them.
One morning at school the principal called my name over the intercom with no explanation – just “Come to the Office.” I walked down those long tiled halls past the library and restrooms and lunchroom. There were never any lights on in the hall. I walked into the foyer to find Mr. Cravey standing beside his plants, the ones we never dared to touch. Without a word, he led me out the front door and there was Yackey, padding back and forth with that soft w-a-ack, w-a-ack of his, waiting to be admitted or to be acknowledged or perhaps even waiting to be educated as so many of us inside were waiting. Cravey said, “Is he yours? Make him go home.”
“I can’t sir – I’ll have to take him home.”
“Take him and come back” and Cravey was gone – no need for a parent dismissal, no phone calls for permission.
Yackey must have been relieved to find me, because he willingly followed. My dad delighted in saying that we only lived a block from the elementary school, but it was an endless block that day – me, in front, head hanging down, feeling ashamed for someone else’s actions; Yackey, behind me, asking quiet questions all the way home.
I suppose it was my first experience with parenting, poor parenting. Suddenly this dependent creature who shared in the daily events of my life had shamed me by pulling me into his own event, had made me accountable for his actions, and yet still trusted me enough to follow me even though I simply wanted to be rid of him and the embarrassment he had caused me. He continued to trust me in innocent ignorance of the fact that my unspoken, unrealistic expectations had been violated.
I thought of that walk last year when I wrote:
I’m not a very good parent tonight –
I keep wishing there was someone to call who had no idea
I even was a parent.
I hurt and tonight I’m overwhelmed with hurt –
I’m disappointed –
All that glittered didn’t turn out to be gold.
I’m ashamed
That I didn’t do better in the first place
That I screamed
That I got angry
And that I don’t know how to get to the real problem.
One morning at school the principal called my name over the intercom with no explanation – just “Come to the Office.” I walked down those long tiled halls past the library and restrooms and lunchroom. There were never any lights on in the hall. I walked into the foyer to find Mr. Cravey standing beside his plants, the ones we never dared to touch. Without a word, he led me out the front door and there was Yackey, padding back and forth with that soft w-a-ack, w-a-ack of his, waiting to be admitted or to be acknowledged or perhaps even waiting to be educated as so many of us inside were waiting. Cravey said, “Is he yours? Make him go home.”
“I can’t sir – I’ll have to take him home.”
“Take him and come back” and Cravey was gone – no need for a parent dismissal, no phone calls for permission.
Yackey must have been relieved to find me, because he willingly followed. My dad delighted in saying that we only lived a block from the elementary school, but it was an endless block that day – me, in front, head hanging down, feeling ashamed for someone else’s actions; Yackey, behind me, asking quiet questions all the way home.
I suppose it was my first experience with parenting, poor parenting. Suddenly this dependent creature who shared in the daily events of my life had shamed me by pulling me into his own event, had made me accountable for his actions, and yet still trusted me enough to follow me even though I simply wanted to be rid of him and the embarrassment he had caused me. He continued to trust me in innocent ignorance of the fact that my unspoken, unrealistic expectations had been violated.
I thought of that walk last year when I wrote:
I’m not a very good parent tonight –
I keep wishing there was someone to call who had no idea
I even was a parent.
I hurt and tonight I’m overwhelmed with hurt –
I’m disappointed –
All that glittered didn’t turn out to be gold.
I’m ashamed
That I didn’t do better in the first place
That I screamed
That I got angry
And that I don’t know how to get to the real problem.
Monday, October 2, 1989
To Geoffrey
Just yesterday
You took your first steps
Across a barbershop floor
And defended a fort under the branches of a fir.
You smiled with a broad grin
Under Buster Brown bangs
And the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen.
You invested your days in blocks and books and ideas
And drank from the world with the thirst of a child.
Today
You stand before me
Eye to eye,
Still a child, not yet a man.
But, the man is there, waiting –
His time will come.
Sometimes, I’d like to send him away
To prevent the loss of someone precious and still too fragile –
Someone I will never be able to replace.
But, more often now, he tempts me
To share new ideas and dreams –
To rejoice in the discovery of the man he will become.
You took your first steps
Across a barbershop floor
And defended a fort under the branches of a fir.
You smiled with a broad grin
Under Buster Brown bangs
And the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen.
You invested your days in blocks and books and ideas
And drank from the world with the thirst of a child.
Today
You stand before me
Eye to eye,
Still a child, not yet a man.
But, the man is there, waiting –
His time will come.
Sometimes, I’d like to send him away
To prevent the loss of someone precious and still too fragile –
Someone I will never be able to replace.
But, more often now, he tempts me
To share new ideas and dreams –
To rejoice in the discovery of the man he will become.
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