Bike Riding - It Isn't All Water

When I was in kindergarten or thereabouts, I was taught to ride a bicycle.  I do not write that I learned to ride a bike although I eventually did.  I was taught to ride a bike. I did not particularly have any inclination to learn this skill at the time; I was told I had to. For some reason it was required. I have the idea that my teacher was my dad, but I have a suspicion that my mom was also involved. 

We lived in a small town, and our house was fortuitously across the street from a small church with a small paved parking lot that had a small patch of gravel near it with a small bit of grass beyond that. There was a significant bump riding into the lot from the street.

As I was coerced into learning this skill, a parent held on to the back of the white banana seat of the purple two-wheeler with a white basket decorated with colorful plastic flowers, and as soon as said parent decided I’d mastered balance, parent would let go, and I would promptly fall over.  My recollection is that the parent(s) in question got fed up and told me to stay in the parking lot until I could ride the bike. 

I did.  I don’t remember how long it took, but I learned to balance, to avoid the gravel patch, not to go careening into the grass, and I may have even pulled the lever on the handlebar bell a few times.  Soon, I abandoned the parking lot for the street, up and down, to my friend Melinda’s house.

David Foster Wallace gave the commencement address at Kenyon College in 2005 in which he asserted that our monotonous adult lives all depend upon how we view that monotony.  We have the choice, he asserted, to be annoyed, or we can simply see our daily experiences, like a grocery store or a traffic jam, as “water” – the stuff daily life is made of.  And, he further suggested that we have the choice of how we view the water.  We can view people and the annoyances of life in any number of ways, and it is incumbent upon us to consciously choose how we encounter life. 

True enough.  However, I would go on to say, that one needs to view life, its people, and its situations for what they are; not everything is water.  There is gravel, heavy traffic, and big bumps.  It's not all the same.

Some of life’s experiences involve people making you do things you don’t really want to do.  We all have tasks that we must do on a daily basis at the behest of others.  Riding the bike.  We can whine or bitch about it, but adult life demands that we do some things that we just plain don’t want to do.  If we are lucky, we have parents or mentors who teach us to balance as we are getting started.

As we are riding that daily life bike, we may encounter paved patches.  We can manage quite well on these.  Some of us may find our patches a little small and strike out to find larger patches to navigate.  Still, no matter how big your paved road of daily tasks is, there are always some gravel spots.  Those must be ridden on or around.  The grass beyond must be respected.

Thinking that all the roads we are riding on are the same, might just land us unconscious on the side of the road with a concussion.  Navigating daily adult life is more than just saying “this is water” and making a conscious effort to encounter life thoughtfully.  This navigation also demands that we recognize our surroundings for what they are, keep our balance, and steer as needed. 

Once we get the hang of the riding and navigating, we can, occasionally, ring our handlebar bell.  The analogy is stretching bit, but my point comes down to this:  it’s not all water.  There are basic tasks, annoying people, extreme stresses, and things to be swerved around.  It behooves us to see what we are riding on.  It’s not all water, and if we acknowledge the people or situations for what they really are, then, perhaps we become expert riders.  

I'm Done Being a Mother

I said something over Christmas break when all three of my children were at the dinner table that I’ve been wrestling with ever since.  At first, I castigated myself and considered apologizing.  Then, after some thought – the kind some people might call soul searching – I came to believe that I couldn’t really apologize for something that I mean.

Apple slices.  I had simply forgotten to slice the apples and put them on the table. We had just sat down to one of the evening meals that I had spent about three hours on – planning, shopping, making sure it would have both carnivore and herbivore appeal, and preparing – and I realized I had forgotten the apples.  I asked if anyone really wanted apples, and the responses were varied.  Tired and not really willing to slice even one apple, I said, “Well, if you want apples, you can cut them yourself.”   There followed some jovial banter about if I truly loved them I would cut apples because that’s what mothers do.  My response: “I’m kind of done mothering.”

We proceeded to eat dinner amiably, but that last sentence stuck around.  It hung in the air for a bit, and then descended and started lurking in corners around the house.  One of my sons brought it up jokingly when I mentioned there were snacks they could help themselves to.  I even wrote a poem about it.  Since then, though, I have been embracing the truth in that statement.

Of course, I'll always be a mother.  Being a mother is one of the roles that I am most proud of in my life.  But, I am many other things.  My boys are growing up.  My mom once told me that "the point of being a parent is to work yourself out of a job."  In many respects that's true.  I don't change diapers any more; I don' t shop for Garanimals for them any more; and, as I have recently had to remind my youngest, I don't need to see anything below your waist unless you think something is wrong down there.  I'm in a transition phase of this mom job.

I’m done mothering in as much as it means I have to cut apple slices for men/boys who are 21, 18 and 12.  I’m done mothering in as much as it means I need to do laundry for those self-same people.  I’m not willing to plan perfectly balanced suppers any more, and I’m not going to pack healthful lunches with smiley face notes.   That’s the kind of mothering I am done with.  My youngest son suggested a few days ago that if I get lonely once they all leave home, I could adopt a child.  No.  There are women who want to keep mothering young children indefinitely; I know some of them.  I respect them.  I do not want to do that. 

I don’t really want to shoot baskets in the driveway any more.  I mean, I will do that but…get a friend or brother to join you.  I’m not picking up your belongings because you had a long day at school – so did I.  I have had twenty-one years of long days at school.  Make your own lunch for tomorrow, and you can help make supper, too.

I am not suggesting that my sons are sloppy or inconsiderate or demanding.  My middle son has done his own laundry since middle school. My eldest might tell you that he has always felt older than he is due to my parenting.  Overall,  I have put lots of effort into raising them to be considerate, kind, and thoughtful.  They almost always are.  They are pretty independent, too.  When I go to book club, they make their own supper and clean it up.  It's funny when I see a mother who plans to go to her child’s college town on the child’s birthday to celebrate with him.  Here’s a spoiler: the kid doesn’t want you to do that.  Send them a new sweater, a funny card, and some money.  Such mothers are trying to keep themselves occupied and their children young and dependent.  

Just like those birthday-celebrating mothers continue to do, I have put enormous pressure on myself over the years to make sure my sons’ socks match and their nice shirts are on the hangers and there's a vegetable and starch and protein on every plate at every meal.  I have been the slave-master and slave at the same time.  A slave to whatever I thought I “should do” or that I thought other mothers were doing and that I needed to do to “keep up” or risk having socially-stunted and unkind children going out my door each morning.  Now, I certainly don’t care if your socks match or your jeans are neatly pressed.  If you have french fries and cheese for supper when I'm at work late, then ok. I’m done embracing mothering pressure.   

I’m done mothering if your room is messy or your fail to brush your hair. I’m done mothering if you want a snack but can’t see the pile of clementines or box of granola bars or jar of cookies.  I will usually make supper, but just know that unless it’s a holiday, I’m not really feeling it.  I’ll help with homework if I can, but that’s unlikely.  You’ll probably have to stay after school for help from the teacher and study with friends.  I am happy to listen to laments about friends, girlfriends, boyfriends, finances, school, and jobs; that’s the kind of mothering I will always be available for.  I’ll discuss politics, religion, television, movies, and social trends.  I’ll always be there to hug you and tell you I love you.  Always.  But, I’m not going to make sure your sock drawer is in order or that your underwear is folded.    I’ll make sure you aren’t living in your own filth if you are in my home.  If you’re on your own, you really should clean up, but I’m not going to come by and check.

There are all kinds of mothers in the world, and I’d like to think that I have been a decent one for twenty-one years and that I will continue to evolve in this position.  I’m done mothering boys.  I’ll happily mother young men, but they are going to have to cut their own apples.