The Child in Us Is Gone but Not Forgotten
/The Boston Herald
The house is cleaner without them. There are no hair balls in the shower, no wet towels on bedroom floors, no jackets slung over kitchen chairs, no Doritos spilled on the family room couch, no dirty dishes on the counters, no piles of school books gathering dust on the hall stairs.
The house is quieter, too. The phone rings, but not as often - and never at midnight (the only child at home is 12 and her friends are asleep by then). The TV still blares, the washer chugs, the dryer purrs and the dishwasher grunts, but not every day, not constantly. And there isn't always a radio screaming somewhere, and never two radios on different stations turned to full volume at the same time.
I have to admit I like the new found quiet and the clean house, and I love not having to wash clothes and pick up hair balls and wet towels. But I miss the source of all the noise and mess. I miss my children.
We talk on the phone and write letters and send cards. And last month I visited them both, one in Florida and the other in Amherst and I saw them as a stranger would, as independent, responsible, almost adults. They were the ones in charge. I was in their territory, meeting their friends. I was their guest and I awaited guidance from them.
My son gave me a grand tour of Disney World telling me things I didn’t know, facts he'd learned in his management class. Like how much film Disney sold every day and how many people visited the park every year. He led me to the best rides, directed me to the best places to eat, introduced me to his friends and showed me short cuts between places. I was the child and he was the adult and it didn't bother me at all.
My daughter took me to one of her classes, introduced me to her teacher and her friends and found me a seat. She included me in her life the way I included her in mine.
Just a few years ago, she accompanied me to class. Just a few years ago I filled her Sesame Street lunch box with cookies and crayons, found her a seat beside me and made sure she was occupied and having a good time. Now she was the one taking care of me.
Coming home from seeing them, I realized that I had for the first time really seen them. I had a broader view, a wider perspective. They are still my children, but they are not children anymore.
They will come home and I will forget this revelation. I will again think of them as children. My son, who cooks for himself, will beg me to cook. My daughter, who does her own laundry, will depend on me for clean clothes. Jackets will once again be flung over chairs. Doritos will spill on the couch and wet towels will be left on the floor.
I will nag and they will complain. And I will forget what I know right now.
