The transition is complete. I saw Ari, 19 walking up the driveway the other day and thought it was some man. I had to give my head a shake to realize it was my baby. Conversely, Christopher, 22, has been 6’4’ for so long it’s baby pictures of him that surprise me. I don’t know; maybe we just let the first one grow up faster.
We are spending a summer juggling cars and jobs and schedules. Christer’s girlfriend Pammy, 22, is working days, and Ari works most afternoons and evenings. Christer and I are based here but I travel, so each evening is trying to sort who needs to be where and when, then involving cars and bikes and timing. I realized early on I didn’t need to be part of the equation anymore; they sort it out amongst themselves and everyone gets where they need to be. I am living with grownups.
Pammy will make dinner some nights; Christopher once cut the grass before I asked him to; Ari will grab me a bottle of wine on his way home from work (“you like this Sove stuff, right?”) and blue bins often go out without a reminder. They fix my computer. Laundry I didn’t fold appears folded.
“Where do we keep the vacuum for the car?”
“We’re ordering pizza, what do you want on yours?”
“Mom, I’m sending you a really interesting link. Read it and tell me what you think.”
I like this new era. It can be frustrating, because they turn back into children at the most inopportune moments. They still look at me with haunted eyes around dinnertime, and there is nothing to eat even though they do the grocery shopping. I hand them my card and say “if you recognize it, put it in the cart” and they come home with an eclectic cross section of things that rarely make a single normal meal. We adapt and melt cheese on this instead of that.
I was flipping through piles of old pictures the other day, and came across a trove I’d never seen. A box dropped off by a friend after Mom died, tiny black and white photos of both parents before they’d married, before they’d even known each other. Pic after pic of my Dad in natty suits and Don Draper hats, striking poses beside cars – and sometimes women – I didn’t recognize. I was looking at my own son staring back at me. I showed Ari and he smiled, but he was humouring me because he’s even old enough to do that now.
When he was about 6, I was chopping garlic for dinner one night. A sliced clove sat on the cutting board, and I turned to see Ari grimacing as he put a piece in his mouth. Determined, he chewed, tears forming. I asked what he was doing. “You said Pa used to eat that stuff, so I guess I better, too.” My Dad did eat raw garlic, and this tiny boy was honouring him in the only way he could think. I learned then the honour is in the effort.
My quasi-grownups still get dressed out of laundry baskets, dressers merely decorative. I barked at Ari that he had 9 empty drawers he could use, and he said he only had 6.
“The dresser has 6 and there are another 3 under your bed,” I reminded him.
“I never put stuff in those ones,” he replied. I asked him why not.
“When I was little, I thought you bought those to keep the monsters under the bed from getting out.”
My baby grinned.