The Person You Can Disappoint

Since that very party is today, Robin has insisted that we get the twinkle lights up on our picket fence. "C'mon, sweetie, we've got to do something seasonal," he says, urging me off the couch and away from The New York Times. It is so uncharacteristic of him to think of pushing the holiday spirit. Maybe he's feeling the empty nest as much as I am.

"You know it is natural to feel sad," he says reassuringly as he puts his arm around me and we head for the shed to find the lights. "For twenty years, we created rituals, never thinking it would all come to a grinding halt. We knew that one day we'd have to share the kids with other families, but I, for one, never dreamed that would mean an end to family Christmas gatherings altogether. Hell, I feel as if all that tradition just evaporated."

I smile and snuggle into the crook of his arm. He has cut right to the heart of my conflict. What was the point of all those years of effort? What is lasting anymore? And did my mother or Robin's ever feel this way when we were starting our own family traditions?

It was apparent early on that both our boys were determined to have lives of their own as they ran here and there—chasing girls, dreams, adventures–the farther away the better, it seemed. "You know, it's all your fault," I tease, as we start to untangle the lights. "You were the nomad when you were young. I guess it rubbed off on our sons."

He laughs and wraps a strand around the top of the fence.

"I've been thinking about what Kahlil Gibran wrote in The Prophet, that 'your children are not your children. They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.' Do you think the boys know how much we miss them?" I ask.

"To tell you the truth, I don't think they have time to think about it. Besides, they both married strong women just like you." His comment stings even though I understand that it is true.

"That business about not losing a son but gaining a daughter is hogwash, absolute hogwash," I declare. "This whole relationship with married sons feels like an amicable divorce, if you ask me."

"Don't you think that's a bit strong?"

"No, I think it's accurate—at least for right now. I never envisioned life without a one-on-one relationship with each of my children, and I can't recall when I last had so much as a moment with either of them alone. I was complaining to a friend the other day that Andy isn't dead, he's just married."

"Now, Joan, they do call."

"They call you when they have a problem or need money, but never me. I'm the odd woman out, no question about it," I say while weaving the lights in and out between the pickets.

I know that what I've said is not altogether true. In fact, as soon as the words leave my mouth, I have a vivid memory of my last visit to California to see Andrew, our older son, just after the birth of his third son. I hadn't been in their house for more than a few hours when I could feel the tension. It's one thing to observe your children's triumphs and joys and another to be a part of their agony—a sort of reality television show gone bad. It was so easy when the boys were young and I could kiss their hurts and bandage their wounds. But now Andy seemed overwhelmed with responsibility—not enough money, too much work—and in a weak moment he asked me what I did when things got bad. Since I didn't know what he meant by bad, I answered cautiously: "Endured."

"That's hardly helpful," he shot back.

"Well, it's the hard that makes it great," I said, smiling. "When one of your marathons gets tough, where do you take your head so you don't quit?" It was a risky analogy. Andy had been running ultra-marathons, fifty- and one-hundred-mile races, for a few years. Robin and I both felt that the physical strain was too much, not to mention the pressure it put on his daily life. With two, now three kids, a full-time job as the head of a private school, and a modern marriage in which the husband was expected to do as much around the house as the wife, Andy had to wake up at 4:30 a.m. to run his ten miles, come home to help get the kids off to school, and work all day. The weekends were even worse. On Saturdays and Sundays, his runs sometimes took six to seven hours. But he was very good and clearly determined to succeed. I followed each of his races from afar, feeling a mixture of fear and tremendous pride.

"Look, you've been on a roller coaster these past two years," I continued. "You interviewed all over the country before taking this job; you sold your house in Phoenix, moved out here to Oakland, decided to rent because you couldn't afford to buy, and now have had a third baby—hell, who do you think you are that you shouldn't crack one way or another?" I registered a sigh of relief on his face. "Pausing, taking some time, just being is my prescription for you right now, Andy."

"Yes, but my wife just had a baby."

"All the more reason to be still—be here, but be quiet. Take in what you have and take on nothing new. Give yourself the time and space to recuperate. Your wife needs that from you."

"I'll try," he said weakly.

Before I left, I said to him, "Andy, don't ever forget—no man is an island. We've finally begun to talk again. Let's keep the dialogue going. It's good for both of us. And for God's sake, answer my emails."

"You know, Mom, I might not."

"Why?"

"Because you happen to be one of the few persons in the world I can actually disappoint." I wasn't sure exactly how to take his comment. Although bittersweet and shocking, even, for once we were talking truth like we used to when he was growing up. As he was the firstborn and somewhat my soul mate, I suppose I longed for more of such intimate moments during this most sentimental of seasons.

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