A Hopeful Scarecrow

I had a session with a psychic last night.  My dear friend was so pleased with her reading by this lady that I wanted one for myself. It was very helpful, actually, and she said something that was validating for me.  She mentioned that both of my boys are super smart and then said that intelligence comes from the mother.  I’d never heard this before, and I sensed that her intention was to kindly point out one of my more positive aspects (since we’d covered plenty of the negative ones), but my own thought was, “Yes, I’m aware that my brain was stolen.”

What had happened to it was a mystery until my older son decided to go to med school and had no choice but to reveal the true horsepower he’d been hiding in his skull; and I have to say, I’m a bit upset with him over it.  I mean, there’s nothing “wrong” with my brain—it works, and the contents are the same as before, but the space is . . . muffled.  The minute he was born, it felt like I’d been living in a 5500-square-foot house with all the lights on and several major appliances running, cooled to 68 degrees on a summer day, but suddenly the grid was down, and the solar battery could only power two forty-watt bulbs and a toaster.  The spacious, zippy, electric feeling that I’d never even noticed before was gone.  The furnishings were still there, but they were harder to see in the dim light.  I wandered the halls with a guttering candle, squinting into rooms that had once been clear as day.  I tried not to panic, hoping it was simply a hormone thing, but tragically, the power was never restored and I’ve been living off grid ever since.  I eventually blamed the anesthesiologist—he’d missed the right spot with the epidural and given me the max dosage in response to my complaints, which still didn’t work very well but did keep me from walking for a couple of days.  I also wondered at times if what had happened was a shift from head to heart upon becoming a mother; but in any event, I grew accustomed to working by candlelight, so everything was fine.  In my boy’s third year of college, however, I began to suspect that he was using stolen goods, and when he scored in the 99th percentile on the MCAT, I developed a new theory.  I decided that he probably had a relatively normal amount of brain before grabbing my transformer on the way out, thereby revving up his own noggin beyond genetically explicable levels.  I realize this isn’t an accepted medical explanation, but there’s a whole lot that medicine still can’t explain and plenty of its explanations that I simply disagree with. I’m already tired of hearing, “It doesn’t work that way, Mom.”  Ugh.  Stupid science.

My younger one is just as smart, but since I had no spare brainpower left to give, he resorted to an alternative wiring system to produce exceptional intellectual results.  He’s insanely creative, writes brilliantly and was great at stand-up when he was fourteen, before he fell in love with theatre; so when I recently felt compelled to do an open mic night, I thought he might have some advice. What he actually said was, “I’m pretty sure you have ADHD” . . . and resumed reading his book.  Still, he's never seemed to mind my presence, which was a pleasant surprise after his brother closed his door at fourteen and only emerged to move himself into his dorm, refusing my help. He’d probably put quotes around “help,” for reasons I don’t understand, but my younger one was considerate enough to lie on his bed while his father and I moved him into his dorm.  He got up so I could put the sheets on, of course, but other than that, he didn’t do a thing. I arranged that room exactly the way I needed it to be, and then I went home and bawled for two weeks.  I only got off the couch to paint things yellow—his favorite color—desperate to recover some sort of happy.  Those were hard times, but luckily, they passed—as times do—and now I’m exploring a new season of life.  It’s not off to the greatest start ever, but I’ve decided that it will be a joyful one, nevertheless, simply because it can be.  And last night when the psychic told me she was hearing the song Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Da because there’s “plenty of sunshine” heading my way, I felt that my money was well spent. Maybe, down the yellow brick road, I'll even find an alternative power source for me melon. One can dream.

The Price of a Bargain

I used to have good luck finding clothes at TJ Maxx from time to time, but I had the strangest experience the last time I went.  There was a line for the dressing rooms, and if you’ve ever been there, you know that there’s an attendant who gives you a number indicating how many items you’re bringing in.  Well, I was up next, and the attendant, while busying herself with hangers, was mumbling, “I only need one.  I only need one.”  I assumed she was talking to herself, but then she gestured to me in exasperation, like she’d been summoning me.  So I approached her hesitantly, and she said, “I only have three.”  I’m sure I cocked my head and furrowed my brow because I didn’t understand, so she repeats herself, “I only have three,” and she starts mumbling about other numbers.  There’s a four, and a one again.  But she acts like I should know what she’s talking about, and I’m so confused, I’m squinting at her, and I’m trying so hard to understand that my mouth is open.  No one has ever paid such close attention to this lady as I am paying in this moment.  I have three items, and she isn’t counting them or handing me a number, so I just take a guess:  “Should I just go in then?”  And she says, “No!”  So at least that’s clear.  But then she says, “I just have three,” again, and she sticks her hand out impatiently, like she’d been waiting for me to hand my hangers over.  She counts them, hands me a three, and gestures me away from her, saying, “You can have three.”  I’m still squinting, trying desperately to get a handle on what’s going on, and I think maybe she’s saying I can take my three items in, but it’s not a perfect explanation.  I wonder if it’s some kind of Tourette’s, where things are just coming out of her mouth, and maybe she’s deaf, so she doesn’t know what’s actually coming out because I’ve never heard of a disorder where you think you’re saying, “Next,” but what you’re actually saying is, “I only need one.”  I don’t think I’ve ever been this confused, not even when I was a kid and my mom wouldn’t let me sing Brick House because it was a curse word. But then I realize that above one of the curtains is the number three.  Three was the only room available, so she only “had” three.  I felt both stupid and relieved, yet there’s still so much I don’t understand about that interaction that now I just go to Dillard’s where you have to wander for an hour to find an employee; but I could load up a burro with items from the racks and take it into a dressing room, and nary a number would be uttered.  It might be harder to find a bargain there, but the peace inside my head is priceless.

The thing about fear . . .

I was a morbid child, always certain that some horrific tragedy was about to strike and crying myself to sleep about it.  I won’t get into why's of this, but I will say that it drove me to study ancient teachings at a young age.  I reeeeeeally wanted to reach enlightenment so that I could be okay no matter what happened, but the funny thing is that the more I've learned, grown and healed along that path, the less I've cared about enlightenment per se, yet the more okay I am with however life shows up. I'm able to enjoy myself instead of cringing in anticipation, which is what I think I was after from the beginning, but I still meditate, so if enlightenment decides to land, I'm there for it.

I try to share what I’ve learned with my sons, but that never goes well.  They’re 20 and 23, so the days when they considered me wise are long behind us.  Those were two wonderful days, and now it's a tad disappointing because (imo) they could really benefit from what I’ve learned, but they don’t believe in anything “spiritual.”  They think that when you’re dead, you’re dead, that’s it.  I hate to think that having me as a mom is what sent them running in the opposite direction, but I think it anyway.  They do love me, though, and since now I'm the only parent they've got, I feel we're even closer. They’re coping amazingly well with the death of their dad in August of last year, but if they’d gotten to choose which parent to live without . . . well, I’m not sure I like my odds there.  This is a wee bit infuriating because their dad was either out of town or planted on the couch with headphones on for 90% of their childhood.  I’m not saying he wasn’t a good man—he truly, truly was.  But he had issues, and he did the thing where he pretended that he didn’t, so I thought I was the issue, and I tried to resolve me for decades.  Honestly, I didn’t really get anywhere with that. Not until I was on my own, waking up each morning with the surprising sensation of being stitched back together, did I begin to see things more clearly.  (Energetically "stitched," btw.  If it had felt physical, I would have woken up screaming.  My mother is still embarrassed about the way I behaved when I actually needed stitches.)   

But back to my kids . . . when my older son had to write, for his med school application, about the biggest challenge he’d overcome, do you know what it was?  Hint:  Not the tragic loss of his father.

ME.  It was me!  But he was sweet about it—he’s grateful for being raised with a kooky belief system because he had to find his own way to “science.”  Okay, fine, but he also had to write about his hero.  One guess as to who that was. If you guessed the lump on the couch with the headphones, you got it.   

So I honor that.  I’m glad that my boys had a dad whom they treasured and that I was able to give them material for med school applications, but if my own young self were willing to hear what I have to say, here's what I would tell her:  Your fear shows you where you’re choosing illusion over reality.  Terrible things will happen—although not the ones you’re worried about—but they will reveal to you a strength that you didn’t know you had, and you will be fine.  More than fine, actually.  Life is not trying to destroy you—it’s helping you realize who you are. So just roll with it, for goodness’ sake.  Get some sleep, play, dance, tumble, sing, imagine—all of it adds to your life—and for the love of all that is holy, wear sunscreen and don’t forget to put it on your neck.  Tanning is for dummies.