Before you go

Dear Sam,

I can hardly believe it, but here I am again on the precipice of another senior year--on the brink of another goodbye.  I knew when you were little that when my little ducks started flying the nest it would happen rapidly, one after the other, until my nest was truly empty.  So even though my heart hasn’t fully adjusted to having your sister gone, you seem bound and determined to leave me, too. 

I know you aren’t a huge fan of dramatic displays of emotion, or frankly any displays of emotion or affection.  I can’t imagine many 17 year old boys are.  But as these growing up years wind down, I’m worried that I haven’t covered it all yet.  There are lessons yet to teach, wisdom (or practical experience at a minimum) that I have yet to bestow upon you.  And you are gone so much—busy with friends and school and sports—how will I ever get it all through to you?  

With your sister, I allowed myself to wax a bit more poetic and sentimental.  She was my first and a girl and, frankly, a little more indulgent of my wistfulness as she rocketed through her senior year and bittersweet lasts.  You aren’t sentimental in the least (not that she really was, but she tolerated me), and you’ll likely be deeply annoyed if I get too squishy sweet.  I can't promise I won’t drift there—I’m your mom, after all, and you’ll always be my baby. For her, I wrote a series of essays under the tongue in cheek theme of “Not Crying” (the obvious subtext being of course I was crying.  I cried over all of it and probably will again).  For you, however, I am planning to be a bit more pragmatic.  Your blog series will be focused around the message, “Before you go…” and I’ll use it to document all the things I hope you’ll remember as you head into the world and become a man. 

Perhaps it will land for you now.  Maybe you will read it and think, “Man, my mom is brilliant.  She’s really got it all together.”  If you ever utter, or even think these words, please make sure that I am aware.  I will buy a lottery ticket and also go to confession immediately because either everything in the world is coming together for me, or the end is near and I had best get my affairs in order.  Most likely, you won’t have time to even read them.  Or if you do, you’ll skim it and roll your eyes, groan and walk away.  

My hope for this series of essays is this:  someday something resonates for you.  I hope I can help you avoid some hurt and mistakes.  I hope that you recognize this effort for what it is—a labor of love as intense and, at times (if my go around with Grace is any indication), annoying and inconvenient as the labor I went through to bring you into this world. 

I have been writing stories and poems and observations about the world for as long as I can remember.  Reading and writing are what help me make sense of the world.  I can think of no better way to attempt to articulate our lives to this point and our journey through the coming year, than to craft a few observations and comments in these pages over the next few months.  I am doing it out of the deepest possible love for you, even though right now I’m sure it will annoy you to no end.  Almost everything I do annoys you to no end.  It’s sort of how we relate right now.

I want to leave you with a quote from a book (you'll find a lot of these in the coming posts).  I think of this often, because it took me awhile to realize that almost all people are messy and stupid—me most of all.  I know I wasn’t a perfect mom to you--in the early days, through all the middle years, and especially now.  But I never failed you for lack of trying, or for lack of love.  I gave you love in the way I like to receive it, in the way that made most sense to me.  And then I gave it to you in the way you seemed to prefer it--at a distance and often in the form of cash or a favor. 

I was probably a little overwhelming at times; I often am.  As a baby and toddler you were one of my most affectionate children.  I once read that being the mother of a 2 year old boy is like being a rock star in a world without critics.  That is certainly how you made me feel.  And you weren’t one of those indiscriminate, happy babies who cheerfully tolerated any and all affection and attention.  You were very discriminating.  I used to say, “Sammy only likes me, and he only likes me some of the time.”  (Really, you did like me most of the time).

As you grew, ever further away from me, the way I showed you love wasn’t always perfect.  In the book I am about to quote, a young woman visits a former teacher who is dying.  He tells her about a man who hated and disapproved of him for most of his life, but when he was diagnosed with terminal illness, he showed up every Sunday to bring him a milkshake.  It wasn’t enough to make up for all the unkindness over the years, but the man was trying.  He wanted to show his former coworker love.  The dying man didn’t necessarily want a milkshake, but he graciously accepted it every weekend.  His advice was this, “I’ll give you what I learned from all this…Accept what people offer.  Drink their milkshakes.  Take their love.”*

People love imperfectly.  I know I do.  But I remind myself regularly to recognize it for the gift that it is, in whatever clunky way it is offered.

Before you go, remember to drink the milkshakes.  Take the love. 

*From She's Come Undone by Wally Lamb