SavageTimes

My children are a wonder to me.

This is both good and bad: I wonder at their ability to turn a simple sentence into laughter.  I wonder at their bond that has been there since before Autumn was born, when her big brother constantly asked when he was getting a little sister (when I would proposition that he might get a little brother, he would shake his head decisively and state, “no, I’m having a little sister, momma”).  I wonder at they way they bicker, snark, argue and laugh together.  I wonder at their energy, their creativity, the way they see the world.

Tied to this is their anxieties, their worries, their inability to go with the flow–all things I either did not experience or was not allowed the luxury of experiencing as a child.  Or maybe my life was simply more boring and constant: we went to England every two years.  It was clockwork; it was expected.  In between my dad would plan out elaborate vacations that rarely came to fruition.  I didn’t mind.  Every summer we grew a massive garden in our 1/4 acre: pumpkins, watermelon, corn, beans, peas, tomatoes….I dug my toes into the hard hot dirt and wandered through rows of vegetables, eating as I picked.  I wondered what my best friend was doing in the Grand Canyon or Disneyland or Maine.  But I liked where I was.  I had plans, of course, but life was long and the so was the summer.

Holidays we switched back and forth between our house and my aunt and uncle’s house.  It just was the way it was.  No questions.  No change.  My dad and his brother played chess, every year, and every year, inevitably, my dad would get mad and overturn the chess game.  My grandma drank too much and smoked like a chimney.  My mom and my aunt slaved in the kitchen and gossiped about family members who were not there.  My cousins and I listened just out of eyesight, spied on the adults from under the table, played hide and seek out in the yard.  No surprise guests ever appeared.

I longed for adventure, and took in every scent, every taste, every possible emotion any time we left my small hometown.

If I’d been given the opportunity to travel with two other families and see a place I’d never seen before, I would have died of excitement, not freaked out over worries and anxieties that I wouldn’t sleep, that I wouldn’t have fun, that….

Or would I?

I never did truly enjoy having sleepovers.  Sure, I used to do it all the time–my cousin’s house was my second home.  But I would lie awake, in my sleeping bag on the floor of my favorite cousin’s room, listening to the house settle, my aunt and uncle watching TV, my other cousins in other rooms breathing, farting, rolling over, talking.  I rarely slept.

At my grandparents in England, it always took me a few days to acclimate to being there.  I read myself to sleep at least the first few days.  If we hadn’t spent two weeks there, I would have adapted just in time to go home.

So, did I not freak out because there was such a larger part of me that wanted OUT of my life?  Or did I not freak out because I felt like it wouldn’t matter, that it wouldn’t be heard?  Or was it a combination of the two, or neither?

My children freak out at change.  Like, FREAK out.  My son, tonight, in my girlfriend’s parents’ house, is downstairs in the basement crying, sobbing.  He misses home.  He is excited to be here.  He wants to go home.  He wants to have a great time.  He won’t get to sleep.  He wants to sleep with his friends.  It’s a teeming mass of emotions I don’t even know what to do with, how to deal with.

I don’t feel like that.

Or do I?

On the plane today, watching a movie about some girl who has colon cancer and dies, I wanted to cry but shut it down, shuttled it to the back places in my head, my heart.  “Stupid stuff,” I thought.  Why would anyone want to watch a movie about someone dying?  Dying sucks.  Next to me my girlfriend shed tears, easily and without shame.

Tonight my daughter tells me they just want to FEEL, that I should just let them FEEL and leave them alone.

I’m not sure I’ve ever just…FELT. I don’t like emotions.  They are an annoyance.  I like to make them go away.  I like to not think about them.  I slept over at my cousin’s house when I was a kid because I felt like it was expected of me, because I couldn’t say no, because I felt like I was weird if that I didn’t want to.

I am pretty sure I want to freak out every time life changes on me.  But I just plow ahead.  I don’t let it get to me.  I might just fall apart if I did.

Tonight, I watch my son in the chair across from me and wish I could feel the way he feels: openly, whole-heartedly, hugely.