I don't think there would have been many tears throughout the last few days leading up to taking my daughter to college. The night before was stymied by exhaustion from getting my room ready (of course freshman move-in day was the first day back for my fourth and fifth grade students). As the night came to a close it was frustration from Lisa's last minute bye-bye-a-thons and instagram pictures before she left. I doubt she slept much that night. Once the morning came the tears were thwarted by the speed of the moment. I think Lisa had the keys in the can ignition before I was even out of the shower. We stopped for coffee at our local Tim Horton's, where the normal wait was an unbearable knife in the expectation of the trip.
The road trip. Kids asking to turn movie volume up, start them over. Parents asking kids to stop kicking the back of the seats, to be nice, to finish their breakfast. We drove through fog that slowed us by 10 mph. I think Lisa slept some. I wanted to pull through Amish country (exit 83!) and pick up some wine. No time.
Arrival was one event after another. I felt like my younger daughter's van-swept hair. Nametags and tables of bananas. Mom, I need my social security number. Cruz complaining to take his medication with orange juice instead of milk. Pretty college girls. Reycina almost tipping over her orange juice. Playing juggle master with folders, water bottles and complimentary coffee mugs.
Move in to a legion of helpers who unpacked the van with smiles. Lisa went into a unpacking and interior design zone. Her roomate's dad and i arranged loft beds, raised them, lowered them. We pushed cabinets into closets and lifted totes. The moms made suggestion-decisions for their daughters then retracted them with the I-really-meant-you-should-take-my-advice, "Whatever you want to do," statement. More pretty college girls.
We drove over to Target to get towels, and a few things mom's always find they need once they ever arrive at a destination. Kids were hungry. Milly's hair looked as if someone rubbed a balloon on her head. Cruz ran into the crosswalk to raise the percentage of his death by stupidity. Their snack ended up being freezer-burned fries I carried through the store like a man wearing one of those side man-bags.
Back to college for lunch. Burgers, pizza and italian subs. We met another player. Cruz at one point grabs the brownie tongs and bites from it. Contamination. Did I mention he had not yet taken his medication? The parents and I talked about the drunks at Walsh College, how God had set the girls' paths in a unique way, softball and boys.
By the time we went back to the dorm, Cruz had began a game on the Wii, Milly had lost her flip slops and Lisa had rearranged the items on her desk several times. When I checked my phone I read a text that told me my school was on lockdown from a shooting that took place on school grounds. The perps even ran through our playground. I'm sure someone tried to blow a whistle at them to stop running or forfeit their recess.
The kids did cry. I took pictures of them hugging her. And then we said goodbye. No speeches. Not that it mattered at that point. And not that I would have had anything profound to say that wouldn't end up sounding like a complaint, or a cautionary warning from a parent who didn't really know any better.
I didn't know much when we brought her into our home at age 10 (I have not previously mentioned that we adopted our daughter until now. She's all my kids ever know of a big sister. She's certainly more than I could have ever asked from my own genetics.). At age 12, we dropped her off at a birthday party without getting a phone number. My wife and I ruined our anniversary dinner fretting about her whereabouts. She ended up being safe and sound at the parent's home she was originally entrusted with. We've always had to share her--with her friends because we wanted her to have the life of a typical white, suburban girl. Sleepovers and hangouts. We shared her with softball. After the games were over, Lisa always went on her way. Even when she made the commitment to college we were not there. There are 100 other stories about her independence. All of them were training for the time when she would mature and grow and leave to live on her own. She's halfway there.
She's always been that gift I never asked for. Who knows what they get themselves into when they become a parent? I surely didn't deserve her presence. What a kid.
And by the time we started the van and headed out of the parking lot, my little one reminds me there's still more work to be done.
Daddy, will you start it all over?
And I push play everyday.
Saturday, August 25, 2012
Tuesday, August 7, 2012
Honoring the Moment
I've been trying to express the feeling of complete wholeness I've felt in recent days being back in my hometown of Houston. I can easily go the movie route--the final scene in Titanic when DiCaprio triumphantly applauds Kate as she descends the spiral, decadent staircase. Everyone is applauding. If life were as simple as the relationships we strive to fulfill, the "heaven" scene just about hits that pinnacle. But it's also a bit self-serving. Why am I surrounded by my family and friends as they applaud me? Am I that self centered? Is this indicative of how I treat others?
I can go the way of the existentialism, the thought that the individual creates their own consciousness. Humans, therefore, in our infinite wisdom (was that sarcastic?) determine their own meaning for themselves. Sounds so great. When I was jet skiing on Lake Houston I will admit a sliver of this conceitedness awoke within me. There was a moment when the sun hid behind the clouds and the ripples of the lake turned a grayish blue. In that pinnacle of self-contentment, my thoughts went back to God. Wow. That's all I could muster--a wow. Of all my classes in descriptive language, fiction writing and poetry, the one word I share with God and the world is a "wow." So much for being some great human being.
In the midst of these descriptions, the best way to acknowledge the feeling I had was to simply express them the way I always have--in sharing the experiences. Some of the people you may not know. The in jokes you might not get. But I share these moments as if you were there sitting next to me. That's the best way to honor the moment.
Grandma's kitchen. The setting has changed somewhat. The oil painting Jesus does not remind me of the guilt of tortillas filling my belly. The table feels smaller but more intimate to. Close enough to pass the bowls of vegetables back and forth. Recipes remembered and practiced over years of dinners and occasions. There's something about fried chicken that transcends memories, the sense of my grandmother's hands. Working the breading into the meat, the delicacy of hands that have been worn from labor, love and age.
Old viejita lying in bed, simply because their legs aren't strong enough to hold up their frames any longer. Her skin was the texture of silk, unlike skin is supposed to feel--rugged and tight. Nails glisten with purple polish that remind me of cascarones eggs.
Ninfa's house. The traditional colors of spanish culture--the reds, the yellows, burnt browns and parrot-feather green--adorn the several rooms. Catholic reminders hang in crucifix, the family portraits capture her children in their best poses. One of the patients in the house/nursing home is a woman suffering from spina biffida, perhaps worse. The patient's mom has permanently removed her teeth from biting her caregivers. It's probably the only motion she can muster. Her arms sit curled above her chest as if she's awaiting to be tickled--frozen. Her feet twisted and tiny, and I'm thankful they are covered in kid-sized white socks. I want to at least say "Hi" but whould she even know it? Otherwise just seems rude. Talking as if she weren't in the room.
Road trips. The short ones in Houston where conversation takes the place of talk radio and top 40 hits. There's a flip side to being in town you're familiar with. You notice the new storefronts, the expressways widened for traffic. But you also remember the old as well. Like dates, awkward memories and the laughter you once had when you had no direction. Street signs road map my sins.
And eventually the road trip ends. We were chased out of Arkansas with lightning storms. Tennessee awakened us with a sunset that flirted with the mountain top fog. There was a moment when I felt we were driving into a cloud. I could have. It's that easy.
I can go the way of the existentialism, the thought that the individual creates their own consciousness. Humans, therefore, in our infinite wisdom (was that sarcastic?) determine their own meaning for themselves. Sounds so great. When I was jet skiing on Lake Houston I will admit a sliver of this conceitedness awoke within me. There was a moment when the sun hid behind the clouds and the ripples of the lake turned a grayish blue. In that pinnacle of self-contentment, my thoughts went back to God. Wow. That's all I could muster--a wow. Of all my classes in descriptive language, fiction writing and poetry, the one word I share with God and the world is a "wow." So much for being some great human being.
In the midst of these descriptions, the best way to acknowledge the feeling I had was to simply express them the way I always have--in sharing the experiences. Some of the people you may not know. The in jokes you might not get. But I share these moments as if you were there sitting next to me. That's the best way to honor the moment.
Grandma's kitchen. The setting has changed somewhat. The oil painting Jesus does not remind me of the guilt of tortillas filling my belly. The table feels smaller but more intimate to. Close enough to pass the bowls of vegetables back and forth. Recipes remembered and practiced over years of dinners and occasions. There's something about fried chicken that transcends memories, the sense of my grandmother's hands. Working the breading into the meat, the delicacy of hands that have been worn from labor, love and age.
Old viejita lying in bed, simply because their legs aren't strong enough to hold up their frames any longer. Her skin was the texture of silk, unlike skin is supposed to feel--rugged and tight. Nails glisten with purple polish that remind me of cascarones eggs.
Ninfa's house. The traditional colors of spanish culture--the reds, the yellows, burnt browns and parrot-feather green--adorn the several rooms. Catholic reminders hang in crucifix, the family portraits capture her children in their best poses. One of the patients in the house/nursing home is a woman suffering from spina biffida, perhaps worse. The patient's mom has permanently removed her teeth from biting her caregivers. It's probably the only motion she can muster. Her arms sit curled above her chest as if she's awaiting to be tickled--frozen. Her feet twisted and tiny, and I'm thankful they are covered in kid-sized white socks. I want to at least say "Hi" but whould she even know it? Otherwise just seems rude. Talking as if she weren't in the room.
Road trips. The short ones in Houston where conversation takes the place of talk radio and top 40 hits. There's a flip side to being in town you're familiar with. You notice the new storefronts, the expressways widened for traffic. But you also remember the old as well. Like dates, awkward memories and the laughter you once had when you had no direction. Street signs road map my sins.
And eventually the road trip ends. We were chased out of Arkansas with lightning storms. Tennessee awakened us with a sunset that flirted with the mountain top fog. There was a moment when I felt we were driving into a cloud. I could have. It's that easy.
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