Twenty

"I'm going to make a lot of money. And then I'm going to give it away." - My son, a few days before his 20th birthday.

Day 234. (The beauty of sequential numbers enchants me). Ruby is home. She has more stitches down one of her legs than my son did when they split him stem to stern for one of the surgeries during his second year of life. His surgeon joked that if he had to do one more operation, he was going to install a zipper to save time. I adored Dr. Tuggle. We had the same sardonic sense of humor, and a rather odd rapport considering he was the person who repeatedly saw my child from the inside out. Literally. I am not at all clear why the universe is so intent upon me developing wound care skills.

I found myself singing the same lullabies to Ruby that I did to my son during that protracted hospital stay 18 years ago. Numerous songs from the Olivia Newton John album she wrote for her daughter, Chloe. I still know all the words. Those songs got me and my son through many a long, dark night. Gassho, Olivia.

Today my son turned twenty. I had to surrender my parent-of-a-teenager card. I relinquished it readily, though disclosing that I was parenting a teen never failed to elicit sympathetic nods and murmurs of knowing understanding from other parents in the club. Now we just joke about our respective bursar accounts. Connection is our salvation.

My son spent his birthday preparing for, and participating in, an interview for an internship at a Big Four Accounting Firm. That's right. Public accounting. The only son of a Buddhist, liberal, vegetarian, feminist, psychologist single mom has declared a double major of finance and accounting. I have raised a suit. The only thing he could do that would be more rebellious is marry a Baptist. Of course, there's still time. At least he may procure a job. Americans and counting money have, historically, been a pretty sure thing.

It has been an emotional day. I realize I am probably not the first mother to wax nostalgic on her child's birthday, but I suspect the sources of our melancholy are highly individual. My son was not a planned event. Welcomed and celebrated, but not planned. Some beings are created with effort and forethought, and some burst into existence because the universe deemed it necessary. My son falls into the latter category. I chuckle at the planning and control exerted by many parental figures. Our offspring are not meant to be controlled. Marinated in love, but not controlled.

As if we can remotely control the twists and turns of plot following the birth of our children. I certainly didn't plan that my child would spend the bulk of time between years one and two in Children's Hospital. Never dreamed I would know how to keep a central line sterile, be able to reinsert a defective feeding tube, or learn to hook up an IV bag to feed my baby through a tube in his stomach. Didn't foresee, but appreciated the irony, of becoming a rather decent gluten-free cook, beginning in 1992 when gluten-free wasn't a household word. Couldn't have anticipated that I would be on a first name basis with the personnel in the emergency room at Norman Regional Hospital. In my wildest fears, I could not have imagined that I would traverse a snowy mountain pass alone to join my son on a surreal MediFlight journey while he was in a coma and intubated. It's probably a good thing parents can't see into the future. Otherwise, there would be a lot more babies for sale on Craig's List.

The miraculous thing was that I also had no way of knowing that my son, from the time he was three, would be poetry in motion on soccer and football fields. Or that his firefighter fetish would result in a three-year-old who dressed (complete with red suspenders and boots attached to his pants) as a firefighter every single day for around 15 months. Interestingly, this was juxtaposed upon an almost equal obsession with doctoring, which required me to assist with (approximately) 467 surgeries on Snowy, his enormous stuffed bear. I couldn't have guessed that his best friend would be the son of two psychologists who was born on the exact same day (Happy Birthday, Donald). Never knew my child would become a worldwide traveler, with a passport rivaling the Pitt-Jolie kids, as he accompanied me to several countries while I taught. What a delightful companion. Gassho to all of our splendid adventures.

For someone who considered remaining childless, I sure lucked out. I was gifted with the privilege of mothering the most amazing child on the planet. Smart (enough to get in to Wake Forest, but not actually go!), kind (except for a few days between ages 14 and 16), athletic (in between bonks on the head and smashed fingers), funny, fair, friendly, insightful, mature, brave, honest, loyal, cool beyond comprehension, and open. In heart and mind. My ego wants to believe that I had something to do with how remarkable this young man is, but I know better. He arrived in the world that way. He is who he is. I just loved him with everything in me, and tried to stay out of his way. Oh yeah. I also threw a gazillion wobbly football passes his way. No wonder he was such an astounding cornerback.

Now my child is studiously progressing toward a profession that potentially symbolizes everything I loathe. Suits. Ties. White males in white shirts. Money. Capitalism. Ego. Financial gain. Math galore. I suspect he will be very, very good at it. Meanwhile, Reality sits in the wings, calmly licking its chops (and undoubtedly chortling over this particular ironic twist). I'm chuckling a little myself, because I know for a fact that the accounting giants who will one day employ my son won't know what hit them. Especially during the interview, when he says, "I'm going to make a lot of money. And then I'm going to give it away."

I love you, Son.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc