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11-09-2006 Elizabeth Trever Buchinger Sure there are. Um. Aren’t there? Let’s see. Lifting a foot to step on an escalator only to realize it isn’t moving _ that’s pretty distressing. As a matter of fact, the whole walk up or down a frozen escalator is mightily darned distressing. You step briskly, don’t you, positive that the machine is going to lurch into action at any moment. That trepidation is worse than counting out 18 birthday candles. Eighteen. Birthday. Candles. You know what else is worse? That first afternoon when it is fully, undeniably dark outside when you leave work. It’s going to be a long time before you clock out and skip into the warm, bright afternoon _ a long, cold, dark time. That’s so much worse than knowing that your little boy is old enough to vote. The world is full of irritants, inequities and minor tragedies that make having an 18-year-old child look like a chocolate chip cakewalk. Consider: * Thinking you were voting for Mario Lopez of "Dancing with the Stars" when you actually voted for Mario Cuomo of "New York State Government." And vice-versa. * Realizing that it was Andrew, not Mario, who was on the ticket. * Discovering your stash of Halloween candy has dwindled away to a handful of hard taffy wrapped in black and orange wax paper. * Wanting candy badly enough to eat hard taffy wrapped in orange wax paper. * Stubbed toes. * Bad haircuts. * Frozen pipes. * Biting your tongue, hard. Sometimes, it can be a hassle just to get through the day. And when that day is the 18th anniversary of the day you first beheld your oldest child’s downy, sweet-smelling head, it can seem like your own head and your heart are in a race to see which will explode first from the impossibility of it all. A friend of mine has two daughters who are six and three. She marvels that when she watches them sleeping, her heart still leaps and melts in just the same way it did when they were brand new. I want to tell her that the leaping and melting she feels are just a lame precursor to what she will experience a few years from now. Crashed out on the sofa (his sofa in his den), my son is the very picture of calm repose. But I know better. I know he has his hand on the door and he’s all ready to step through it into adulthood. One day soon, he will start calling this place his parents’ house. I want to wake him up and tell him to enjoy this time while it’s here. I want to tell him that, as scary and thrilling as this next step must be for him, he will do well because he is kind and funny and genuine. I want to tell him about every single thing that could possibly cause him sorrow, even though I know it is impossible to protect your children from the sorrows that are rightfully theirs. I want to tell him to be careful, to be polite, to be honest, to be responsible, to be lighthearted, to be compassionate, and to come home often to visit. But I won’t. When the time comes, I will tell him Happy Birthday, and hope I’ve managed to teach him the rest some time in these past 18 years. Elizabeth Trever Buchinger is a freelance writer who promised herself she wouldn’t get all sentimental. She can be reached at VillageWordsmith@hughes.net |
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