Here’s a moment in time: I’m listening to the rain; that’s because it’s so loud I cannot not listen. I know that sentence is grammatically incorrect. I have the overhead light on because it’s so dark outside and somehow this is making the room seem incredibly bright in contrast. The two middle brothers are watching television in the next room. I think they are watching because they are bored and tired and all Friday evening-ish and I’m pretty sure I should think of something better for them to do. Instead, I’m letting them watch and I’m sitting in the next room having sent some emails out and I’m taking this moment to write about this moment.
It’s so Meta.
I wish I felt like my 13-year-old was happier. His teachers and the de facto principal reminded me this afternoon being 13 just is kind of miserable at times and you can’t fix it. That was a powerfully helpful reminder.
I just spent a couple of minutes looking at a Tumblr of “cool.” I wanted to be cool while I looked at pictures of cool.
My daughter is very cool.
So are my sons, even the one who calls himself a nerd.
After hearing that message about the less-than-happy teen maybe just having to be less-than-happy all the time, I took him to see the lovely craniosacral therapist, who does a lot of work with kids. She’s gentle and kind and terribly skilled. He didn’t want to go. His younger brother, who has seen her before, did.
By the end of the session, he let her show him some reflexology points, which he deemed “interesting.” His little sister saw Gretchen, the therapist, in the spring and wouldn’t let Gretchen touch her head or neck. I often massage my little gal at bedtime and have been trying to touch her head and neck. In the summer, she let Gretchen go everywhere.
At the end of today’s session, Gretchen smiled at me and nodded a big yes.
I think the message is clear: you can only be 13 at the pace of a 13-year-old.
All week, when I think about having that son turn 16, I just cannot believe that once he was so small he fit inside of me and then was easy to scoop up and carry. I keep going back to this photograph from last weekend when he’s been admiring a friend’s infant daughter.
All week, I’ve been wondering whether by the time September ends with autumn officially begun we’ll ever feel in the groove. I’m pretty sure the answer is probably not exactly and yes of course all at once. For 16 years I’ve wondered whether one day I’d catch my breath. At moments like this, when it’s quiet, but not, I know the answer: not the same way I caught my breath before I became a parent.
What is true is this: I am able to hear the rain. I’ve been breathing in and out and noticing that, too.