What Am I Doing Today?

Counting the minutes till my son goes back to school -- and looking for the tissues.

Whatever Happened to My Good Boy?

Whatever happened to my good boy?

Gone are the days he was my shadow, begging me to take him home if I came to school for anything, refusing to stay at birthday parties if I didn’t, crying if he had to stay with Daddy when I went out for a while.

At first, it was wonderful, being needed so much (with a husband whose needs are along the lines of “when’s dinner?” and “where’s my clean socks?”). Now I miss it terribly.

These days, while other kids race out at dismissal to fling themselves into moms’ and dads’ arms, mine stomps out with a glare on his face and slips his hand immediately out of my grasp.

Of course, he’s 9 now. It’s what he’s supposed to do.

But where did the rolling of the eyes every time I say anything, come from? The pretending not to see me when I come to school and his friends say, “Phillip, there’s your mom!” And the most devastating of all, “Mom, you’re annoying me.” (Which, of course, is followed by a trip to his room, but I’m running out of being able to manhandle him down the hall.)

And I’m finding I now have to talk to the back of his neck, because he’s so far out in front of me, walking. (Half the time, like his father, anyway, he pretends not to hear.)

I know it’s good and necessary. But it came so quickly. I thought I had at least another 3 or 4 years before the teenage agony. But he’s gotten everything early – baby teeth, learning to read, and now, I guess, this.

Maybe it’s just that it was summer and we were together every waking minute. I’m getting better. Now in the morning when I ask what he wants for breakfast and he growls at me, I just go out for a jog.

Of course, a lot of this is that my son’s moving on. Maybe it’s the cool mornings now, with the hint of autumn, the skies closing down so early, the dry leaves crackling underfoot and fluttering down from the sky, lacing my lawn like a necklace, but seasons change and kids grow up, and maybe with the coming of fall, another reminder that life only lasts so long.

Someone once said having a kid is like your heart walking around outside your body, and it’s true. I know he’s only going to grow farther and farther away and one day, oh my God, have a wife.

And I know it’s I who has to do the letting go. But I waited so long for him! Now, it’s like handing over that very same heart.

I miss my sweet little boy. But he’s growing into a man now. The seeds are there.

And he can still surprise me. The other night, saying prayers, he said, “Thank you, God, for giving me this mommy.” I guess I can live with the eyes.


Deborah DiSesa Hirsch is a writer living in Stamford.

Letting Go of Life's Little Surprises

Letting go of life's little surprises
Published: 05:54 p.m., Thursday, July 8, 2010

I was rinsing and scrubbing raspberries for my son. Then I saw the news.

For years they've been telling us to eat more fruits and vegetables. Now, the pesticides give your kids ADD.

And remember how they told us to eat our meat well-done, to kill off all the E-coli? Now they're finding meat cooked too well can give you cancer. Hmm. Kidney failure or chemo? That's a hard one.

What about the sun? For years it's meant skin cancer, cataracts, and aging. But now we're not getting enough Vitamin D. So bring back the baby oil, and grill, baby, grill.

And water. What could be bad about water? But, wait. Now drinking too much can kill you. It's called hyponatremia and, OK, it's rare. But if you drink too much, it can flush out all the salt in your body, damaging your organs. (Remember when eating too much salt was bad?)

And now there's metal in my ginkgo biloba.

OK, OK, so I'm a hypochondriac. But I like the ground to be firm under my feet. I want life to be, well, predictable. Or, at least, to follow the rules. Like John Lennon allegedly put it, "Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans" -- or maybe it was someone else who also found himself shocked at life's little surprises.

Like the other night. As we were saying prayers, my son mentioned a boy he knew whose father was going off to Iraq. Though only eight, he's heard enough about the war to know people die. Then he wanted to talk about what if he had to go off to war. My son is a worrier and I couldn't just brush him off. So what I said was that, hopefully, there wouldn't be wars when he was older, and if there were, he might not have to go.

And then I said what I say to get through my life. "If you have to go, God or the universe will keep you safe."

Of course, this doesn't mean that God would keep him from dying. No one knows that. (Even as I write this, my hands shake.) And I haven't always been able to put my life in God's (or the universe's) hands. But after years of life's little surprises, I've realized how little control we really have, in the end.

At first it was a very scary notion, especially when I was diagnosed with a serious illness five years ago. The very last thing I wanted to do was give up control. I don't mean take the treatment out of my doctor's hands. I mean, surrender. I began to realize I had no control over how my illness would go.

But over time, and after meeting other very brave people who didn't make it, I surrendered. Surrendering doesn't mean that you twist up into a heap and lie in a dark corner somewhere. To me it meant letting go, something I've never been good at (chasing my husband, abandoning the idea that I would ever have a child, and God, those 20 pounds).

I'll never forget my friend, Dana, who knew she was dying, and in her hospital bed, went around the room and told each of us how she would still be with us when she was gone. She died a week later, at peace. She was 37.

Surrendering lets you live in the present. And really, that's all we have. I don't know if I'll be here when my son graduates from high school, or see my first grandchild, and the thought makes me take a deep breath. But I'm here now, and this is what we have, and so I'm enjoying (mostly) the sassing back and the rolled eyes and the "Mo-oms" when I say something dumb like "I love you" in front of his friends.

This is not to say I don't occasionally indulge in road rage or get mad when someone in the express line slips in front of me with a full cart.

But I love being able now to let life flow, and see where the current takes me. Sure, it's scary sometimes, and if I get sick again, I don't know how much this will help me. But for right now, I'm OK with life, and its little surprises.

And I've decided I'm just going to do what I usually do. Lie in the shade, drink my water, and when my son's hungry, just reach for the Fritos.

Deborah DiSesa Hirsch is a writer who lives in Stamford.

When Life Occurs out of Order

http://www.ctpost.com/default/article/Life-doesn-t-always-occur-in-order-361672.php

By Deborah DiSesa Hirsch

I don't fit in anywhere. Guess that's what happens when you have a child when you're nearly 50.

Don't get me wrong. I adore our son, and the (young) parents of his friends. But there's a certain disconnect when I'm hot-flashing and they're trying to decide whether to have another baby.

Let's face it. Who wouldn't rather hang out with people who can drink all night and still get up for hockey than someone contemplating hip replacement? I'm kidding, of course. (Well, maybe, a little.)

Younger parents accept us as one of them. They invite us to all their parties and don't even mind when we leave on New Year's Eve at 10. (They're used to it; we do it every year.) But I'll never forget the day I realized the mom of my son's best friend was born the same year I graduated from high school.

It's delightful having an 8-year-old at our age. We're lucky -- we leave rock-climbing to the younger parents and take the boys to the movies, or places where you can sit down.

It was different when Phillip was a baby. Maybe you just don't notice in between the diapers and feedings and terrible 2s. It's only when you start to get your life back that you realize you're worrying about whether he should play soccer and your peers are planning a baby shower -- for their kid's kid!

I've always been a step or two behind. I had a long career before I met my husband. Then we waited 10 years to marry. And why have a kid right away? I was 46 when I became pregnant with our son, a week past 47 when he was born.

But we love it. Having a kid at this age keeps you young. Luckily, I don't look my age. Though I'm hearing, "Is that your grandson?" more and more often these days.

Someone said it best. With kids, you live in the present. Worry about illness or retirement? Heck, no. We're out of milk again? And, OMG, the bus is here and I forgot to make his lunch!

On Valentine's Day, our friends will be going into the city for dinner, but by the time they sit down, we'll be in bed. Most likely, sleeping.

I'm not sure if this is the right way for most people. I admit that when I was diagnosed with cancer when Phillip was 3, and again when he was 5, I thought we were not so smart. (I'm thankful now I'm OK.)

I don't know if I would have appreciated Phillip if I'd had him in my 30s. I remember my sister hating that my mom was older (she had her at 36). "Look for the old lady with white hair," she told someone in sixth grade. Those were the days when women didn't do this. But nearing 50 now herself, she'd be hard-pressed to find one friend who didn't have a baby who was older.

I'd do it all again in a second, though I admit I'm the one having naps now. But when we're reading together, or hiking through the Stamford Museum and Nature Center (or buying another magic kit), our son doesn't seem to mind. Yes, we waited a long time to have him. But we feel so blessed. Being the oldest parents in the school seems a small price to pay.

Happy Valentine's Day, parents all.

Deborah DiSesa Hirsch is a writer living in Stamford.