How are we such a mystery to ourselves? Two weeks ago I dyed my hair blue. Not all of it, and not blue exactly more like streaks of teal and indigo (“like a peacock!” the colorist said) so it’s tasteful. Professional even. In a certain way.
You said you didn’t like it, that is was “wee-id”. Understandable. In the 80’s, my dad got a perm. I reacted the same way. What a shock to realize that your parents are separate creatures, who want things you do not want. Things you could not even imagine were things. A perm, and what next? It’s frightening. Like the earth falling out from below.
Around the same time, you climbed out of the fence at school. It’s a tall fence, unclimbable, some would say, in that same way they called the Titanic “unsinkable”. (That comparison is for you, love.) The Director called to tell me. “It’s kind of a big deal.” Yeah, I said. The school is surrounded by a large tract of preserve land. Now I keep my phone with me all the time, ringer on high.
We are both going through something, obviously.
Mother’s Day arrived, the morning spent in a kind of overall sorrow-joy, text messages thoughtfully constructed to fend off the pity of others. The afternoon was you and I locked in battle about not getting dressed and teeth brushing. We were driving around (this is what I do when I don’t know what to do – I put you in the car), you yelling that you hated me every few seconds and me using all of my parenting techniques: “Oh. I hear that you are angry.” “Yeah, and I’m going to kick you in the face.”
After an hour of radio songs about mothers and 30 miles of circles around the East side something finally shifted and you calmed down. You said, “Mom, can I get a gift for R?” R is your kind, goofy teacher who left a month ago to walk the Appalachian Trail. You memorized every one of his jokes so you could retell them to me with insane, unending delight.
“Oh. You miss him. That must make you feel really sad.”
“Yeah,” you said, your lip quivering, “and I didn’t really get to give him anything.”
There was a rush of elation, because the parenting techniques actually did work, and despair, because a man left you, and I didn’t even notice. You, small and sweet in the rear view mirror, staring out the window with your dewy eyes and turned-down lip.
And me, a flash of blue in that mirror suddenly powerful evidence of the same. Someone good, recently there and now gone.
Little Bug 