`Rabbit' means `Don't leave'

The Boston Herald

BEVERLY BECKHAM

Today is rabbit day.

"Rabbit," I say to my husband before getting out of bed.

"Rabbit," he answers automatically.

"Rabbit," I whisper to my 15-year-old before I go downstairs.

"Rabbit," she mumbles, and returns to sleep.

"Rabbit," I repeat to the 20-year-old asleep on the family room couch. She groans, mutters "rabbit," and puts a pillow over her head.

It's silly, this "rabbit" game, but it's a tradition in our house. If on the first day of every month, "rabbit" is the first word you utter, then the rest of the month will be blessed with good fortune. If you forget, however ... Well, there's no telling what terrible things might happen.

We have, of course, forgotten many times. I have also forgotten the severity of the calamities - if any - that followed our forgetting. But to be on the safe side, we continue to play.

September's "rabbit" is by far the year's most important. September is back-to-school, new friends, a new season, a new beginning. "Rabbit" repeated on this day becomes more than a word; it becomes a plea.

I say it from rote, however, without much conviction because I know that nothing can salvage September for me. Though my eyes appreciate the beauty of the month - I love the chrysanthemums now in bloom and the red-orange of the mountain ash; though I love watching children I don't know in their new sweaters and plaids; though I love the way September smells, like sheets that have dried outside; I don't like the way it makes me feel - empty and left behind.

I should be used to September by now. It shouldn't bother me any more. For it's been a long, long time since I braided a little girl's hair, cut off the ends of her peanut butter and jelly sandwich, promised to watch Teddy for her and stood outside waiting for the school bus to swallow her up and take her away. My oldest child is an adult living in Florida. The middle one is a senior in college, the youngest, for whom I watched Teddy, is a sophomore in high school. I am a veteran of Septembers. So why does the word still stick in my throat? Why do I dislike this month so?

When my children were small and I dressed them up and kissed them good-bye and gave them to the world, I had good reason to loathe September. September stole them from me. They lived without me all day, every day. Someone else taught them to read. Someone else told them Great Blue Hill was the biggest hill on the East coast. Someone else listened to their stories and heard their giggles at recess and lunch.

I hated sharing them. Come June, when they returned a little older and a little wiser, but mine full-time again, and I was audience to their stories and their sighs, I was happy. They were my children, not the school's.

People said I would change, that I would learn to love September. "You'll see. Someday you'll be counting the days until school starts."

But I never did. I still don't. Getting the house back in shape, buckling down and being more serious, reorganizing, setting new goals and priorities - these things don't lure me.

I like the chaos that is summer. I don't mind that there are always dirty dishes in the sink and extra people in the house. I don't mind that my daughters listen to music I hate and keep strange hours and turn on the TV when I'm trying to read and come into my office and plop on the floor after I tell them I can't be disturbed.

They tell me what they think, what they did, how they feel, what they want, what they fear. They talk about movies and books and work and friends.

The 20-year-old has been working three jobs. The 15-year-old has been in and out, too. I am just as busy in the summer as I am all year long.

And yet, until September steals them again, until school begins and they are consumed with schedules and classes and assignments, my children are more mine than the world's.

I give them back reluctantly. I may smile. I may say "rabbit."

But in a few days when they leave for school, I will be sad.