I had a much more hectic weekend than I'd anticipated getting ready to send my youngest child off to Army boot camp, but amidst all of the mixed emotions I felt as a mother as my son embarked on this next stage of his life with a course he chose decisively to serve, there was also time to reflect. I walked very early Sunday morning, before the sunrise even, because I could not sleep. I walked again Monday evening in and around the village in Fair Oaks, after I got the final text from my son that he was at Fort Benning and it would now be three months before I was likely to hear from him again.
I thought as I walked along familiar narrow, tree lined streets down toward the river of the significance of the reality that Mack had texted me more times as he made the trip east that day than he had in the prior 3 or 4 months combined. Obviously he was a little nervous about all that lay ahead as well, but I think he also kept me informed to keep me comforted.
I don't think there was disquiet in my mind as this passage approached, but the timing posed emotional challenges. I had not consciously realized until I was far away from the house Sunday morning that not only was Mack leaving on Father's Day, always a complicated day for him, but it also happened to be the anniversary of the day my older son died. I think that realization caused me to measure time differently than I would have just thinking about Mack going off to the Army just two weeks after graduating high school. Now I was more aware of the full span, of how hopefulness and wonder had been set aside so suddenly twenty-six years earlier, and then later three very unique little wonders came into the world beginning with Lucy, and then three years later Audrey, and finally three years after that Mack. I thought about the enchanting video Lucy had just posted from the summit of Mount Saint Helens on Father's Day, her bright eyes and adorable dimples visible as she greeted her dad and then gave a breathless travelogue as her camera panned the vistas to Mount Hood and Mount Rainier ("I think that's Mount Rainier over there", she advised ) off in the blue distance. She is the adventurer and the nurturer. She does not let obstacles stand in her way and she continues to possess the incongruous combination of a child's wonder and a sage's wisdom well beyond her years. She has eased seamlessly over the past five or six years from the very open young adult who would come to me for counsel into the grown daughter who helps me think things through, or advises me when I should stop thinking and just do what feels right. And all of the other children light up when she enters a room. She is 'sissy', the oldest, their leader. Even my Labrador, who has never lived in the same house as Lucy, both lights up and calms down in her presence. And there she was on Sunday, all bundled up and holding a sign that said Happy Father's Day from the summit. Who could have foretold?
And then there is Audrey, who called her brother and talked with him for over an hour Saturday night wanting to reassure him and encourage him and engage him in the everyday workings of her own life. My little marsupial. The baby and toddler who was always holding on tight, clinging so firmly you could literally let go of her and there was no danger she would fall. If it is possible for a child to be born knowing they will be a middle child, that was Audrey, but then God in his infinite wisdom stretched our family out to include three younger siblings and she got to shed some of the unease of the middle to be more of nurturer herself. Much like her namesake, Audrey Hepburn, our Audrey is swanlike and graceful, and she is the only one among the children who has her own special name, made up of an amalgam of our family languages to connote her good heart and that she is much loved by God. Benu. Of course, the kids all call her 'Audge' too, or 'Paudge', and if she is being disagreeable she becomes "The Paudge", which I think means the one who will not move. That's where that big heart comes in to balance things. I remember the first Mother's Day we celebrated after Lucy had gone away to college, with Audrey in charge. She kept me upstairs a very long time in the morning and finally led me down to the table in our breakfast room where she and Mack had prepared two perfectly poached eggs for me along with strong coffee. Over my shoulder I could see the kitchen - multiple pots and pans strewn about, flour tossed here and there along the counters and splattered on the ventilation hood of the stove, the sink quite full of dishes and utensils. I made sure to take pictures of them because I could only guess what had gone into the preparation of those two poached eggs that had resulted in virtually every kitchen item and cooking ingredient being utilized along the way.
As I walked down the long upstairs hallway last night I opened each of the children's bedroom doors (leaving Mack's open for air, a luxury I can now exercise). I opened the blinds to let light into Mack's room and looked about at his many stacked books, his model airplanes and massive Lego Star Wars creations (his architectural creations are all downstairs), video consoles and games filling his large, dusty desk, and bins of who knows what and stacks of military gear in an order I know he understands, all about the room. I will have to delicately downsize all of this in his absence, carefully cataloguing what I relegate to storage. He was the last one, the quiet one, who was so happy and so peaceful even as a baby that his sisters dubbed him The Buddha, and that is who he has been ever since. I've observed as he has evolved from the shy pre-teen and teenager who would scarcely say a word in group settings, but if you were in a one on one situation with him he would rattle on about science fiction books or the game he was mastering on the X Box, or the hierarchy and tribes of Middle Earth. Now he stops and listens more, takes in what interests others, and he dialogues. He is still shy, still painfully introverted - a trait he was pummeled with genetically, getting the biggest dose from both sides of the family. But, I've seen him transform with his friends and galvanize them, I've noticed many of them look up to him as a leader. And I was thinking last night in the stillness of the house with Lois sleeping silently downstairs in her crate and no game sounds or excited conversations spilling out of Mack's room, that he will be fine at Fort Benning.
He was the bird I feared I might have to toss out of the nest, as he often peered over the side and then looked back at me, skeptically, not making any moves toward the edge. It wasn't that the nest was warm and welcoming and familiar so much as that he worried about his mother bird in it all alone once he dove out. That can happen with the youngest. The others scamper off one by one out into the world, feeling the broader air and space, knowing the perch is still there and they can alight to rest again any time. But the last one has had some space, has felt the adjustment as each successive bird takes to flight, and maybe little boy birds raised by single mothers are more protective by nature. I feared I'd have to toughen him up, but he did it himself. I think at some point he looked at me as the last of those ten little ants in the crowded bed in the children's song that begins 'there were ten in the bed, and the little one said, roll over, roll over". So they all rolled over and one fell out, and on each successive round the little one orders them all to roll over. And then at the end of the song there were two in the bed and little one said roll over, and the last other ant fell out - and then all the little one said was 'good night'.
Last night I knew Mack had arrived safely at Fort Benning. I knew he would be strong and would be true to his authentic self. I'd last texted him to enjoy the adventure ahead. And I understood last night as I dozed off to sleep that I wasn't just speaking of the next four months of basic training and AIT. I meant the whole adventure ahead. For all of us, each of us.
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