Discovering Passages
by Liz
Flaherty
In the seventies, Gail
Sheehy wrote a book called Passages. Since it was a period
of life for me that involved three children, one husband, a house,
and a full-time job, I didn’t read the book. It didn’t sound very
entertaining, and believe me, if I had the time to read in those
days, I wanted the subject matter to be entertaining.
Now, in the first decade
of the new century, I still haven’t read the book, but I do think
more about passages these days. A death in our family of someone
who left us too soon, before his life was even in full summer,
caused some of this introspection. The births of my second, third,
and fourth grandchildren in scarcely more than a year created
more.
The passages make me
sad.
I followed a school
bus the other day and thought about all the years my kids rode
a bus. For the entire 13 years I had students in this school system,
they had the same driver. The bus I followed the other day didn’t
even slow down when it passed our house and the driver who kept
my children safe all those hundreds of days — not counting
the ones my little darlings skipped — has passed away.
This morning, eating
breakfast in a restaurant, I watched a father with his four children.
He drank his coffee, ordered for the two youngest, kept the baby
from taking unscheduled flights out of the high chair, talked
with his kids, and chatted with people at other tables, all without
blinking an eye.
Unless you’re a caregiver
or a teacher, I suppose being able to keep up with a horde. Somewhere,
somehow, the ability to think about all those different things
and keep track of reaching fingers and kicking feet while still
maintaining a grip on both a coffee cup and some semblance of
reality passes you by. of kids isn’t a marketable skill when you’ve
finished raising your family, and after a while you lose it.
For all of the at least
100 years that my kids were adolescents, I thought teenagers were
the smartest, neatest, funniest people in the world. The times
I spent with them were some of the most productive and memory-producing
years of my life. I still think spectator entertainment doesn’t
come any better than high school sports and that most clothing
looks better on 17-year-olds than on anyone else on earth. But
nowadays I catch myself thinking things like “why doesn’t he
wash that hair?” or “I wonder if he can speak a complete
sentence without using a four-letter-word” or, worst of all,
“if that was my kid, I’d — ”
I’d what? Who am I
to criticize anyone’s parenting skills when I made every mistake
there was to make at least once, more often two or three times?
Is this what passages do? Do they turn you into a grouchy old
person who forgets how things were once upon a time?
I guess, if you let
them, that’s exactly what they’ll do.
But they can do other
things, too.
I recently saw both
of our sons dressed up at the same time. They wore suits, the
one with a beard had it neatly trimmed, their shoes were freshly
polished. While we sat, necessarily quiet, I didn’t have to tell
either of them to stop kicking the chair in front of him, to stop
whispering, to not smack his gum, to leave his brother alone.
Their father did not
have to point the finger that promised trouble later on or deliver
on that promise. When we took them to lunch and they both ordered
beer, I didn’t feel compelled to deliver the alcohol lecture I’d
perfected over the years.
When we separated later
in the day, I told them, “I love you. Be careful driving home,”
just as I have told them since the first time they palmed a set
of car keys, but the pressure was off. Although I love my children
more and am prouder of them than I’ve ever been, they are no longer
my responsibility.
And when I held my
newest grandson and counted his fingers and toes as I counted
my endless blessings, I looked at his wonderful, tired mother
and thought about how she was just beginning.
I’m glad it’s her instead
of me. I’m glad that when the baby stiffens up and his face turns
red and he lets out a wail, I can hand him to one of her parents
and say, “Here. Do something.” I’m glad that although he fits
my arms like a warm and comfortable sweater, I’m not cold when
I hand him back.
A few years ago, I
had to drive my youngest son to his home an hour away during a
snowstorm. It was black dark and the roads were getting nasty.
When I let my son out of the car, he leaned back in before closing
the door, looking at me in the glare of the interior light, and
said, “I love you. Be careful driving home.”
Did I say passages
made me sad? Maybe, sometimes. And sometimes not. Sometimes the
discovery that things have indeed passed can brighten a gloomy
day or brighten a dark night. It might even keep you from becoming
a grouchy old person who forgets too much.
Married for thirty-some years to Duane, her own personal hero, and mother of three and grandmother of six, Liz Flaherty has written a column from her Window Over the Sink off and on for over ten years. She hopes you enjoy her essays. You can email her at lflaherty@comteck.com
