I try to be helpful. I think I am being helpful. I often believe that my helpfulness will actually help.
But I have learned that this is not true. I am not helpful. Somehow my attempts are misconstrued as being a royal pain.
I’m not sure how this happens. I have spent the vast majority of my life trying to do what’s right. I think that other people want to know what’s right, too. But they don’t. They want to do whatever they’re doing, and they want me to shut up about it.
I am now 57 years old. When, exactly, will I learn to shut up?
My problem is two-fold: (1) In my youth, I never stood up for myself until I became a belligerent drunk, and (2) I always believe that it’s a good idea to tell people what is right.
So it’s tough to keep my mouth shut – or stop my fingers, since I am usually typing these “helpful” ideas on email, social media, or some other form of written communication. Ironically, I type because I want to make sure what I’m saying is kind – and it’s still misconstrued.
This recent misconstruction happened when my county’s Facebook page reported the weekly high school football scores. Someone read the scores and correctly pointed out, “Urbana isn’t even in our county!”
I noticed that this was correct, and jumped on the post to mention that Shane’s high school scores were not included. I said – and I quote:
“I don’t know about Urbana, but I am pretty sure ROCKVILLE is part of Montgomery County, and their scores aren’t here.”
Rockville is the literal heart of the county, the home of the county government buildings.
Three people verbally beat me to a pulp – after completely ignoring the person who complained about Urbana. “This isn’t ESPN,” they said. “Go get your scores somewhere else!”
This was not the reaction I expected.
So when the page administrator said that the scores were randomly sent in by people at the game, I suggested:
“Maybe if you aren’t reporting the scores by calling and getting verified information, you shouldn’t be reporting the scores.”
And this was taken wrong, too.
But what if, for example, some yahoo reported a score as 27-6 in favor of his own team, when that team had been crushed 54-3? That seems likely, especially in the area of high school football, I thought the website would want to avoid that.
So I went to bed, thinking I had helped.
But when I awoke, I’d been blasted again.
“You insulted the website!”
“You could volunteer to do research for them instead of complaining.”
So, as usual, I apologized profusely for saying something that I’d intended to be helpful.
“Sometimes comments are misread, and I am really getting that feeling here. I wasn’t complaining or insulting anyone, nor do I even care about the scores. I was just making a suggestion: if they don’t verify the scores, maybe they shouldn’t be reporting them. That was it. End of story. No complaints. No insults. No arguing. I was just making a suggestion. Obviously this is not a suggestion that anyone wanted to hear…. I am sorry that my response somehow offended everyone. It was never my intent. This is why I almost never put anything on this site. My ‘helpfulness’ is often misconstrued by strangers. Apologies everywhere.”
I’m starting to believe it’s the way I word things, more so than who I am, that makes people find me off-putting. In a way, this is good. The wording of my statements should be fixable.
I’m just not sure that I can do it any better.
It doesn’t feel fixable. It feels like I’m just being me, and I’m being judged and stomped upon for it. And to be honest, I am getting really tired of being judged and stomped upon. It’s been 57 years.
Being misunderstood totally sucks.
Shane is a senior in high school and we are in the midst of college visit season. He’s filled out the vast majority of his applications already, but because of the pandemic he’s visited a lot of empty campuses. The current season gives him a chance to make up for lost time.
Fortunately, because his mother is insane, Shane has been looking at colleges since he was in 7th grade – and more seriously since his freshman year of high school. So he is waaaaay ahead of his peers with regard to visits.
This means that we were fairly focused on which campuses to visit this fall. He’s already looked at two local colleges, one in Ohio and two in New York. This coming weekend, he was scheduled to look at one in Virginia – again – but the college was considering canceling the Open House.
“I think I’ve seen that college enough,” Shane said.
“So you don’t want to go back?” I asked.
“Not really,” he said.
Discussing it a bit more, he reminded me that he had already visited informally once – during a pre-pandemic evening, when Shane played ping pong with his grandfather in the campus game room.
Over the course of several months, Shane did a number of Zoom sessions with the college.
As soon as in-person tours opened up, we traveled to Virginia and Shane did a mid-pandemic tour of a mostly empty campus. He had a one-on-one visit with a student and a conversation with his admissions officer.
Last week, Shane met with that same admissions counselor when she visited his high school. Shane has even already applied to the college. There just isn’t that much more he needs to do.
With all this in mind, we decided to forego the trip this weekend – leaving Shane with a wide-open weekend for the first time in almost a month.
We have additional trips, and more colleges, scheduled. We are looking forward to Open Houses and tours. We are thrilled that – even though we are all masked indoors – we get a chance to wander on campuses that last year forced us to drive through with our windows closed.
Half the fun for me, though, is planning the trips. I am a little nuts that way. I have been planning college road trips since Dylan was in eighth grade – seven years ago.
A few days ago I planned a trip for my friend and her son, even though they didn’t ask me to do so – and they certainly didn’t want my advice or a full trip schedule. It’s just that I love planning the trips so much, I couldn’t control myself. I planned a whole two-day trip (with a possible third-day extension) including tours, open houses, and drive-through visits … all for someone else’s son.
In other words, I am really enjoying the planning – but I am just as happy that we’re doing nothing this weekend, even though I planned the whole trip. I’m almost as happy canceling the trip as I was when I originally planned it!
What does that say about me?
I wonder.
(… continued from previous post)
“I ran over a deer,” Shane said, shaken. “It was already dead but I ran over it.”
He didn’t realize it was a deer until he was nearly on top of it, and there was an 18-wheeler in the other lane; he’d had no choice but to go over it.
And now the car was making a squealing sound that it hadn’t been making before: a loud, horrific, rumbling, squealing sound.
Shane pulled onto the shoulder of the highway. We looked at the car: no visible damage. The tires were good (valve stems intact). On my belly I stared unbelieving under the car.
Nothing appeared to be wrong.
We squealed our way to a wider shoulder. We Facetimed Bill and looked under the car “together” – nothing. Blinkers flashing, going 20 in a 70 zone, we squealed a dozen miles to a gas station.
“Everyplace around here closes at 4:30,” said the woman working at Sheetz.
It was 4:35. On a Saturday. Nothing would be open on Sunday.
We called AAA, who recommended that we make a police report.
“Why?”
“Don’t you have front-end damage?”
“It doesn’t look like we have any damage,” I said. “We just want someone to tell us what’s making that sound!”
“We can only tow you to the nearest service station,” he said. “There’s one two miles away that’s open until 7:00.”
We could squeal another two miles. (So much for $$$ AAA.)
We finally arrived at an open service station.
“It’s gonna be awhile,” said the car guy. “We’ve got three cars in front of you.”
Bill had already searched for a hotel in the area; the entire (tiny) town was booked for the night.
“We’re probably going to be here for a week,” I told him. “Take your time.”
“Nah, we’ll get you in today,” he said.
Well, that was good news. Shane and I sat in the car and waited. And waited. And waited. Almost two hours later, the man took our car into the garage.
We decided to hang out at Dunkin’ Donuts across the street – but by the time Shane got a donut and coffee, they were done with our car.
“Oh no,” I said to Shane. “I forgot to tell him about the ants!” They were still swarming all over our car, and I was afraid he’d determined that the two issues were related – or worse, he refused to work on the car when he saw all the ants.
We raced back across the street from the donut shop. Our car was sitting, untouched. I looked around for the car guy who eventually reappeared.
“You’re all set!” he said.
I stared, dumbfounded. “I’m all set?” I repeated, confused.
“Yep, you’re ready to go!”
“What happened?”
“The bracket around the drive shift was pushed in,” he said. “When he hit the deer, he must have hit the bracket right in the center and knocked it in.”
He made a “popping” sound and demonstrated, his two hands smacking into each other.
“That was it?”
“Yep. I just popped it out for ya,” he said. “You’re good to go.”
Like the tire guy, he would not accept payment for such a simple repair. But that man saved us days of aggravation and rescued our trip. We arrived home at nearly midnight and plopped into bed.
And that’s when Bill went to work on the ant problem.
Three blocks of poison and 24 hours later, Bill had removed two nesting colonies of ants from inside my car.
Now we’re ready for the next college road trip.
This weekend was an adventure. It was supposed to be just another college road trip; instead, it was an adventure.
We were ready to leave right after Shane finished school – and surprisingly, got into the car on time. We turned on the engine to back out of the driveway.
“Oh!” I exclaimed, grabbing a napkin, “There’s a spider in here!” I let the spider crawl from the radio onto a napkin, then handed the napkin to Shane. He hopped out of the car and put it in the grass.
“It wasn’t a spider,” he said as he got back into the car. “It was an ant.” As he said it, another ant surfaced through a crack in the dashboard. We set it outside, too, but where there are two ants, there are usually a hundred.
We tried to leave, but the ants kept coming. We only got to the end of our street before we drove back home. We told Bill about our issue. While he was taking apart the glove compartment, I found a long trail running outside of the car, near the engine. Bill grabbed the hose and tried to guarantee that we could drive ant-free to New York. Somehow the ants transitioned during the two-night trip and by the time we got home, they were swarming at the back of the car. The hose accomplished very little.
Meanwhile, we drove: seven hours to the first college, two hours to the next college, and six hours home.
During the first leg, I ran over some huge chunks of glass so I decided to check our tire pressure. One of our tires was twelve pounds low! We filled it up and tried to find somewhere to patch it – which was not an easy task. The gas station had no garage and sent us to a tire place.
“We’re going to need the car for the whole day,” said the tire shop concierge.
“I need to be in Rochester in two hours,” I said. Shane was touring the University of Rochester.
“That’s the best I can do,” he said. “You can try the tire center down the street, but they’re booking two weeks out.”
He begrudgingly mentioned a third shop half a mile away, but they were busy, too. “It’s only me and one other guy,” said the new tire guy. “It’ll be at least a couple of hours before I can look at it.”
I told him where we needed to be and he said, “That’s like five minutes from here!” And sure enough, we could have almost walked to our tour from the shop. So we drove into Rochester, found a better tire shop (thanks to Bill, who was researching from Maryland), and they took us in immediately.
We waited about half an hour, then our car was pulled in – and back out – in mere minutes.
“The valve stem was pushed in,” said our new best friend, Ray. “They pulled it out so you should be fine now.”
No charge. Off we went, just in time for our college tour.
We spent the night near Ithaca College, and thoroughly enjoyed their Open House the next day. We had no more tire problems, and the ants weren’t bothering us much.
After the Open House, we hit the road. I drove for about an hour, then asked Shane to drive. Almost instantly, I fell asleep – the night before had been rough, and I hadn’t gotten much sleep.
Suddenly a loud thwunk woke me; I sat up quick.
Panicked, I asked Shane: “What happened?!”
(to be continued….)
Shane has temporarily moved into our basement.
It’s a one-bedroom apartment with full kitchen, living and dining areas, a separate bedroom and bath, and even a washer/dryer – which he is putting to good use after only a couple of days down there. He uses the separate entrance and drives his car to school. He goes out without telling me where or why – although he always mentions “I might be going out” which is kind of him.
Shane is almost 18, and this is a good way for him to see what it’s like living on his own. Next year at this time, he is likely to be hundreds (hopefully not thousands) of miles away in college. I thought it would help him learn what he’ll need next year, what he doesn’t yet know.
But I am the one who is learning.
I am learning that it is lonely here without him. When he comes home, he doesn’t come in and pet the dog, smile at me, tell me about his day. He just goes into his apartment and I hear nothing. Instead of longingly waiting until 2:45 p.m. when he gets home, I find myself longingly waiting … and then realizing that I have nothing to anticipate.
Dylan has been gone for two years, and Shane has been – especially because of the pandemic – texting friends, creating an online presence, getting to know people via his phone. I rarely see him. But he’s been here. Sure, he’s upstairs in a closed room, making no known noise. But once in awhile, he comes downstairs to visit the dog and say hello.
Now he’s not even here.
I wake up and think: Why should I bother getting out of bed?
My first thought – because I love it so much – is that I can work on planning our college road trips. This is not actually an activity, but I can spend days, weeks, even months planning a three-day trip to see a college. My boys – each! – have been forced to look at nearly a hundred colleges because I want to make sure they have all of their available options. And also, I just love to plan trips.
But every morning now, I wonder: what am I going to do next year at this time?
In far fewer than 365 days, Shane will be finished with college applications. He will have chosen where he’s going to be educated, and we’ll all be excited for him, wherever he decides to go.
In 365 days, we will have finished our European vacation (planned during the pandemic). We will have purchased everything we think he needs for college, and tearfully dropped him off at his freshman dorm, wherever it may be.
A year from now, then, there will be no college road trips to plan. There will be no pitter-patter of teenage footsteps clomping through the house. There will be no guitars or pianos playing in any area of the house. In fact, like it is now, it will be dead silent.
And I will be … doing what? What will I be doing? What will be my purpose for getting out of the bed in a year?
It’s impossible to guess what purpose I will ever have beyond being a mom. My parents tell me that’s when it’s time to wait for grandchildren, but I was 40 years old when I had Shane. I’m not a hundred percent sure I’ll be alive when – or if – those grandchildren are born.
Of course, I’m not a hundred percent sure I’ll be alive in a year.
So … I am going to do what I can today to enjoy it. I will watch Shane driving by on his way to Starbucks or Taco Bell or his friend’s house – wherever he is going – and I will try to memorize his image, his movements, his voice … whenever he’s around.
And I’ll try desperately hard not to think too much about next year.
I had just stepped up to the post office window when a woman with a walker rushed forward (carrying the walker) to stand by the counter. She had not waited in line, and was desperate to get some attention immediately.
“I can’t use the tape!” she wailed.
No one behind the counter paid any attention to her. After all, she had not waited in the line. So she got louder.
“I can’t use the tape! It’s tied down to the counter because apparently we just have so many thieves…” (she spat this word) “… in this area that everything needs to be tied down! So I can’t reach the tape around the box! Can I get some scissors to cut it loose?”
A postal employee calmly responded: “We can’t give you scissors to use in the lobby.”
“Well then how am I supposed to tape my box?”
“I can give you some tape in a minute to ….”
“Well I can’t be running back and forth, back and forth. I can hardly walk!” She leaned heavily on her currently unused walker.
“Why don’t you bring the box up here ….”
“It’s too heavy! I can’t possibly carry it all the way up here!” Someone from behind her plopped the box on the counter in front of her.
“See?” she shrieked. “How am I supposed to get the tape around this thing? I don’t have time for any of this!” She started fussing with tape and doing exactly what she said she couldn’t do.
Meanwhile, I was calmly mailing my packages. The postal employee ignored her long enough to take care of me, but the woman was muttering the whole time. She was crazed, unconsolable, acting like the world was about to end because some packing tape was tied to the counter.
“I shouldn’t even be here. I don’t have time for this. My mother is in the hospital and ….”
And there it was: the source of her fear. It wasn’t the tape, or the walking, or the thieves who might steal the tape. It wasn’t the size of the box or the insufficient taping.
She was terrified. This woman’s mother was in the hospital, and she needed to get back to her.
But I’m not sure if even she knew that the problem was her mother. I’m not sure if she realized that she was distraught because of the deep, underlying fear that her mother was going to die.
Not everyone wails and whines and moans loudly about things that are bothering them. Some people, in fact, keep everything so bottled up that I might not even notice that there’s a problem. This woman screamed: “I HAVE A PROBLEM!!!” the minute she walked in the door.
I listened to her whine and thought: This is what I sound like. I always sound like this.
My kids have tried to explain to me that I don’t need to scream at the cashier when the food order is wrong, or when it is late, or when anything is out of whack. And I’ve often taken this advice by screaming at my kids: “But someone needs to DO something!!!” in much the same way as the lady at the post office did.
And today I realized, at the ripe old age of 57, that my problem is really not the food order. In fact, the problem is likely unrelated to anything outside of … me.
The problem is: I am deeply afraid.
So. Now I know.
But what is causing the fear? Why am I so afraid all the time?
Writing about Loki’s privileged life reminded me that I got a second chance with my dog. I’m able to do things with Loki that I never did with Xena. I wish I had done things differently with Xena, that I had treated her better, that I had complained less, that I had spent more time just with her. But having Loki now has shown me that I can do more, that I can be better, kinder, more loving.
Which is why now, I’m thinking about my kids. I don’t get a re-do with my kids. I would never want different kids – I am extremely happy with the ones I got – but I could have done better with them.
I realized that there are very few things I would change, if I ever could. Still, there are a few.
If I were able to do it all over again…
- I would yell less. In fact, I would yell not at all. Since I tried not to yell for the past 20 years and failed, I can’t imagine how I would stop the yelling. But I would give it everything I had. Again.
- I would take more videos and, as I finished each VHSC/DVD/whatever-format video, I would LABEL IT. That alone would have made a huge difference in my attitude now. I feel like I filmed them for 20 years and have absolutely no way to watch the videos.
- I would recognize the difference between a “small” thing and a “big” thing when deciding what to share with my children. Anything that has to do with housework is a “small” thing. Anything that has to do with being kind to others is a “big” thing. I wish I’d let the small things go.
That’s it.
Because of my food issues – and the fact that I feel 7000 times better now than I did five years ago – I can look back and see that I was sick. I was tired and hungry frequently, if not every single moment of every day. I didn’t eat properly and I felt like crap.
Lots of moms feel that way, I’m sure. In addition, my thyroid attacked and killed what was left of my enthusiasm for life, right around the time my kids reached their pre-teen years. At one point, I needed to nap as much as I needed to breathe. I was wiped out by my own body.
It isn’t so much of an excuse as it is an understanding. At the time, I believed everything I did was the right thing to do. I tried. I really, really, really tried. But I yelled, I didn’t label tapes, and I harped on my children for teeny tiny idiotic things.
I still wish I had done more with less. So I failed. As we all do, as humans, I failed.
But other than labeling the videos – (why didn’t I label everything?????) – I doubt there is anything I really could have changed, especially not given my physical condition. It’s not an excuse – but I sure don’t feel like yelling as much since I got my imbalances more … balanced.
There is nothing I can do to change the past. And I am still trying. I will continue to try. Until my dying day, I will not give up trying to be the best mom I can be.
Even if that will not save them from their problems, and even if it will never be good enough.
Loki’s lived with us for almost three years but I still consider him “new.” That’s because Xena, our “old” dog, died almost three years ago.
As most dogs are, Xena was the greatest dog in the world. She wanted to please us more than anything. She knew how to “go away” and “come back” on demand. Xena was next to me constantly, and I constantly told her to “go away.” She was a waddle-y tail-wagger who did absolutely anything we asked.
The only thing Xena couldn’t do was stay healthy. She vomited all the time – several times a week for no apparent reason. She was desperately anxious. I should have spent my days calming her. Instead, I wound her up like a top, deserted her when she just wanted companionship, and yelled when she vomited.
Everything I do with Loki feels like a betrayal.
Xena didn’t need walks. By that I mean, I was too busy or lazy to take her for walks, so we only went when I wanted to walk. Xena went for lots of car rides. Sometimes I let her out in a field to run. Those were glorious days. But mostly we let her out in the yard and she sat there alone.
Loki gets two – sometimes three or four – walks per day. He is a ball of energy and if we don’t walk him, he’s insane. He races around the house like a cartoon version of himself. So even in the rain and snow, Loki gets long walks.
When walking him I think, Xena would have loved this. Every time. Every day.
Xena hated her dog food. The canned stuff was expensive and it rotted in her bowl when she didn’t eat it. She vomited when she was hungry, so she vomited a lot while the food sat in the bowl. Eventually we settled on a dry food that she ate, but she never enjoyed it.
The last food Xena ate was a can of delicious, human-grade, very expensive dog food. She loved it. It cost about $2 a can and provided one meal. I bought her a case, finally, when she was literally dying. Xena ate one can and never ate again. I donated the rest.
Loki got canned food immediately. He gets crunchy food, too. When I feed him canned food, I feel guilty that I didn’t buy canned food for Xena. Every time. Every day.
Xena shed a little. Loki doesn’t shed at all. Every time Xena climbed off of me, I spent ten minutes removing hair from my clothes and complaining loudly about it.
Xena never scratched anyone or anything. Loki ruined all our furniture with his claws and we never even grumbled.
Xena’s vomiting meant she wasn’t allowed in my bed – ever. Cleaning the comforter was too hard. She wanted to sleep next to my bed, but her snoring woke me up. So she slept in the hall, alone. Every night for 13 years.
All she wanted was to be near me.
Loki sleeps on a giant feather mattress pad designed for a human, covered with a comfort pad and a queen-sized blanket. Loki has a fleece blanket that he sleeps under. Loki’s luxury bed is right next to mine.
In the mornings, Loki is invited onto my bed for cuddling. Loki loves these moments. He puts his paws in my face, which irritates the heck out of me, but I gently move those paws and keep petting him.
Loki never sleeps in the hall. Every morning, on my bed, I pet Loki and think of Xena.
Every time.
I got involved on Facebook in a conversation about the vaccine.
I try to stay uninvolved, except to make sure that people are educated. I don’t post all over Facebook “educating” people, but I do volunteer – or at least, I did when it mattered – in areas where people didn’t know they could get a vaccine at a nearby clinic. That they could get a vaccine free, without proof of identity, without a green card. That they could get a vaccine without any fear whatsoever. So I went door-to-door telling them that a vaccine was available.
Most people know now that the vaccine is widely available, that it protects people from getting COVID. Most people also know that there have been “breakthrough” infections among the vaccinated. But the vast majority of those who are vaccinated get better quickly, require almost no hospitalizations, and almost never die from COVID, thanks to the vaccine.
So when someone said, “It’s a personal choice and I respect that!” – it sounded to me as if that person was not educated. While it is, indeed, a literal choice to be vaccinated or not vaccinated, this “choice” has to consider the lives of those around us.
Unvaccinated people get COVID at a far higher rate than vaccinated people. And it’s highly contagious. And if you’re sick, you can spread the disease before you even show symptoms. After all this time, people might know that.
But this person still does not seem to know. “Anyone can spread COVID,” she said. “It doesn’t matter if you’re vaccinated or unvaccinated. If I don’t want to get a vaccine, that’s my choice. I’m not hurting anyone.”
Well, I thought, you’re hurting yourself. You’re hurting your family. You’re hurting your friends. You’re hurting everyone around you who is subjected to COVID because you decided not to get a vaccine.
Somehow, as if they live under a rock, there are still people who truly believe that they aren’t hurting anyone else by not being vaccinated themselves. The word for that: ignorant. The definition of ignorant: lacking knowledge; uneducated.
Do they have any idea how diseases are eradicated? Don’t they understand that if fewer people get COVID, then we could eventually destroy COVID?
I didn’t want to argue with Mrs. Personal Choice. Thankfully someone stepped in – a person who works in a hospital. The nurse talked about the sick people who were still flooding the hospital – unable to breathe, unable to get a ventilator. This time, though, she says, more young adults and children are in the hospital. They are running out of beds. She wanted to know: who should tell the parents of a young child, unable to breathe, that there’s no bed for that child, or no ventilator available?
Without missing a beat, the woman swore that she wasn’t causing anyone else to get sick. And I bowed out of the conversation because, quite honestly, there isn’t any way to make the ignorant suddenly turn into educated people. Ignorant people believe what they want to believe, what they are told by other ignorant people. There is no way to disseminate facts to people who refuse to listen.
At this point, people who are still choosing to remain unvaccinated are choosing themselves over everybody else. They are allowing the virus to continue – and they will eventually allow the virus to win. As long as there are people who can get COVID, there will be people who will get COVID.
And as long as people are here to get it, COVID will jump from host to host to host, putting the whole world at risk. And the people who are getting it – if they’re not dead – will continue to scream, “It’s not my fault!”
As if.
I texted Shane when I heard the news: “I’m coming to pick you up,” I said. “Don’t take the bus home.”
Then, as usual, I panicked a little when the crowds started pouring out of the school because I was afraid he’d get on the bus anyway. It’s hard to catch one kid out of 1,500 in the four minutes it takes to fill all those buses.
And on this day, quite suddenly, the buses weren’t safe. They were shutting down the school. Some sort of contagion was spreading, and I sure didn’t want my son to catch it.
My self-described germaphobe friend was two cars away, picking up her son. We commiserated from a safe distance.
“I hope to see you soon!” I said.
“It doesn’t sound good, but I hope so!” she said.
Shane, always vigilant with checking texts, showed up at the car and tossed his backpack into the back. Then he hopped into the front seat, and we chatted – like always – all the way home. It was sad that they didn’t have play rehearsal, we agreed. They might not do the spring musical until later in the year.
We talked about his day. He was smiling. We were both smiling. Everything was a little surreal.
And then it got worse. And worse. Then better. Then worse. And next thing we knew, Shane hadn’t been at school for 18 months. A year and a half of his life passed, with 11th grade completely online.
We all know how this went: everyone was terrified. Then it got worse. Those of us who pray? We prayed a lot. We prayed for the health of our families, some form of relief, safety for our loved ones, some hope that this pandemic might end. We prayed for our sanity and our children. We prayed for a vaccine.
And then the vaccine came, and we allowed ourselves to hope again.
Those of us who’d been educated sufficiently in science and current events recognized the way out; we raced to get the vaccine. Others stayed at home, too afraid to do the one thing that would offer them freedom. And we all paid for their fear, so that now we all have to be afraid again.
But my family is vaccinated, and that makes my son a little less afraid. And my son is vaccinated, which makes my family less afraid.
So today Shane returns to school.
And the oddest thing is: I’m not driving him there. Shane is driving himself. Because during the pandemic, he learned to drive. It was one of the few things he could actually do. He was bored, so we signed him up for the required class. And he did it well. He got his license less than a year after his first romp around a parking lot.
I didn’t realize when I picked up Shane in March of 2020 that it would be the last time I would wait for him in the parking lot. And that Friday morning, I had no idea it would be the last time I would ever drive my son to school, kiss him on the head, and watch him walk inside.
I suppose it’s a mixed blessing that I didn’t know because honestly, I don’t think I could have survived the knowing.
Today my baby drives himself to his first day of his senior year. And I think that means, officially: my baby is not a baby anymore.
