Front Row Seating

For the past few months I've had the privilege of a very front row seat in the relationship of my daughter and her new boyfriend.  They are young and sweet and seem to genuinely adore each other.  They are both old souls indeed, and have had such an immediate rapport - a comfort, that's sometimes never found in relationships no matter how long they endure.  Even the way he has fit into all of our lives - it was seamless apparently, like he's just always been a part of our family.

I say privilege because it really is that.  I'm blessed, or lucky, or whatever you want to call it, enough to not be boxed out and to be included in their lives.  We spend a lot of time together, my daughter and I, and I was so afraid I'd lose that too soon.  But that's not the case.  They seem to enjoy and appreciate my company - and choose to include me, or accompany me, or whatever it is they're doing, and we all get along quite well.  So many teens turn away from their parents once they're "in love".  Or hide.  Or just don't know how to handle their time, becoming overwhelmed in the emotional rush that young love brings.  I don't recall personally being able to balance it.  I don't have a lot of memories of spending time with my parents AND a boyfriend - a few here and there, some holidays and special occasions - but not in our spare time.  It was usually them or him.  So for me this is new ground.

I don't know how long any of it will last - their relationship together or their relationship with me.  But it's been a wonderful addition to our lives as of late and I sincerely hope it continues for a long time.  And I'm so grateful to be so included.  I know that will change the longer they stay together, and as they age and mature - less and less room for a third wheel, especially one that is a parent.  But I'll take what I can get. 

And then there were three

People use the metaphor of a roller coaster for life all the time.  It's probably among the most cliché comparisons...maybe ever.  I've been using it quite often lately, but as I'm typing I'm realizing that its not correct.  Life over the past few years has been more of a street luge experience.  We've been hurtling down a winding, bumpy path, negotiating the turns awkwardly, picking up speed, sometimes losing momentum, picking up speed again, holding tightly onto the apparatus, straining to keep our collective body in alignment to make the ride as smooth as possible, and praying that we don't fall off, lose our balance, shift our weight just ever so slightly to the wrong side, or hit a bump that throws us far off the track, crashing mercilessly into a row of bushes, down a ravine, and into a pile of rocks.

My husband's health is the driver of this crazy train, and he's been out of the house since just before Thanksgiving.  It's not a permanent situation, at some point he'll come back, but by the time he does, well over a month if not more will have gone by and then everything will change.  In the meantime, I'm trying to give and show my kids as normal of a life as I can - making up for some of the time they've lost from their youth over the past few years - giving them as much of my time as I can, keeping life as simple as possible.  I wish I could give them more, take them travelling, but I can only do what our resources allow, since most of them are funneled toward my husband's health.  But considering our recent past, the ease and simplicity of a quiet night at home, playing a card game, or watching a movie, even just doing homework...without being on high alert for another fall, collapse, or seizure is a gift beyond measure.

So we make this work the three of us - my son, my daughter, and I.  It's trickier than I thought.  I didn't realize how much my husband actually did around the house, even with his health problems.  And though his routine list wasn't long, the things he did do - like the cooking, keeping the house well stocked, getting the kids rides to where they need to go (he no longer is able to drive due to his health), receiving packages, paying bills, and being an adult at home when a repairman is needed - have thrown my tenuously balanced list of to dos seriously out of whack.

But we're managing.  We don't want to get too comfortable because we know it's not permanent.  But we know we will all be picking up more responsibilities once he comes home.  Maybe some of us are even slightly dreading it.  Maybe not so slightly. Maybe not some of us.

Back in September, my daughter starting dating a boy she met on the school bus.  He's a good kid, polite, respectful and thoughtful - the kind of kid you want your daughter to date.  He's become a bit of fixture in our lives in a relatively short amount of time, often spending good chunks of his weekend with us.  He gets along with my son - which is a feat in itself, for all the usual reasons a big brother and younger sister's boyfriend may have issues about, but added to it that my son is a finicky kid - quite guarded, and a little bereft of social graces. 

So now, though we are three in the house until the kids daddy comes home, I am typically hanging around with three kids on any given day - rather than two.  Three is a magic number.  And the three of them together make a lot of laughter.  Laughter I love.  Laughter that makes me breathe better.  Laughter I don't want to stop.

Of course, I can't make any presumptions about how long the relationship between my daughter and her boyfriend will last, but he fits well with us and he balances us back, and they sure do seem quite fond of each other. I hope it lasts a while.  People come in and go out of your lives for reasons - not just randomly - not the ones you develop relationships with.  What will happen when we're back to four in the house?  I don't know.  I'm just trying to take each day for what it is.  More to come on this...looking backward and forward.

Good night.  Meet you at the featherball... 

Praise for my Son.

Dec. 16, 2018 This was written in September of 2018.  I didn't finish it, and only saved it as a draft - which I've now found as I'm readying to get back to writing.  I'm not going to edit it, and I'm not going to finish it - as I left it at an odd place. I must have been called away from the task...or perhaps the computer crashed, I'm not sure.  But I was going somewhere with it - where I'm not sure, but I'll let you decide.

I sat and watched from the congregation as my son approached the bimah, readying himself to read, for the third time in so many years the haftarah for the Torah portion on this holiest of holy days, Yom Kippur (for those unfamiliar - the short version is that it's an interpretation of the holy scripture, from the book of Prophets from the Hebrew bible (aka Old Testament), that's read on high holy days and at bar and bat mitzvahs). It's read in Hebrew.  It's rather lengthy and unlike many other of the readings that other congregants do, this reader stands alone on the bimah - at least that's the way it's done at our synagogue. Though the rabbi could stand at another lectern, he or she does not, and the cantor and other bimah guests sit down as well.  If you're watching, rather than reading along, the spotlight, essentially, is on him.  I noticed things maybe only a mother can see because of how well I know him.  Things that were different, but to the congregation, seem just a part of who he is.  But I'll get back to that.

Before he walked up there, knowing where the reading comes in the service, he began to fidget somewhat in his seat.  He twisted and untwisted the fringes of his tallis (prayer shawl), one that he's unfamiliar with, as in the rush to get out  this morning he left his at the door, wrapping them around his fingers nervously.  He reviewed the new verses he had stashed in his prayerbook - while he's done this same portion a couple of times, for whatever reason, his selection was extended this year, and with a new rabbi and new schedule and new commitments, he didn't have the same preparation as in years past.

This is one thing I can't help him with.  I just don't know enough to help him.  I can remind him to practice.  I can set aside time to make sure he's preparing.  But the knowledge base is all him.  I can barely read Hebrew (but I get a little better every year with my haphazard, incidental learning with every service I go to), and I have zero knowledge of how to read or interpret trope (which is marking in the text that indicates to the reader how to chant or sing the reading - yeah, it's actually got a melody to it - its not JUST reading).  If he chants to me, the only real indication I have if he made an error is if he stops and corrects himself.  While there are plenty of online resources available now (that I know he chose not to use), I'm not sure what he used to learn the new parts, but he worked into the wee hours of a few mornings to get it right.  I wish he had that kind of commitment with his school studies.  But I digress.

My son claims to not enjoy performing.  While I don't deny this to be true, it's funny coming from a kid who performs in a marching band - but he claims that since he is one of many on a field, it's different.  Also funny coming from a kid who has performed on stage quite a few times, with somewhat significant roles, and has nailed it every time.  And while this is a religious duty and a mitzvah, it's not a requirement - he can always say no, it is a performance, and it is quintessentially solo.

His name is called and we are sitting toward the back of the sanctuary.  He chose a somewhat circuitous route that bought him a few extra moments, I suppose. His gait was strong and swift and he stepped up to the bimah and the center lectern with a comfort that for me (as I noted earlier - the stuff only a mother might see) is rare.  Not completely confident, he has a tell that I won't reveal, but again, that's a mom's thing, but comfortable. 

With each year, he's grown, of course, figuratively and literally, and now he is visible fully from the waist up when he stands behind the lectern.  So different than just a few years ago, when he stood at that same lectern, which slants downward toward the reader, at his bar mitzvah, and just his head and shoulders peeked out from behind.

His tie was crooked, and he should have gotten a haircut, but he still looked like he should be there, the tallis draped over his shoulders, his kippah perched on his head.  A stillness came over him and then he began to chant.

My son's voice is deep, with a resonance that truly befits holy reading.  I don't say that just because I'm his mother.  I've listened to many people read and chant the ancient words over the years, and I find that the sound, the timbre, if you will, that fits these readings best, tends to be deeper and richer.  And it's not just because he's male, I have found quite a few women who also have similar voices - a little higher on the register than a male, but still just as rich.  Some of it is genetics, some of it is skill, and if you can combine the two, no matter the message, it will be received.

He can also sing.  Most people who know him probably don't know that, unless they've known him a long time.  He sang more before his voice changed, and we don't often hear him sing - even to himself, under his breath.  And when he does in those rare instances around the house, he uses a silly voice, cutting his breathing, still carrying the tune, but not revealing the true sound.

But you can't do that when chanting trope.  Well, I suppose you could, but you wouldn't.  Not on the holiest of days, in a holy sanctuary, with a crowd of people there for same reason, to worship, to repent, to renew.

Something comes over me when he chants - along with the expected pride of a mother, I am just transfixed on the experience.  This doesn't happen all the time.  I'll admit, when I'm at a band performance, or something else when my daughter performs, I can chat with whomever I'm with, keeping one eye and one ear on the experience - I try not to, of course, but if I needed to I could.  But when he chants Hebrew I simply can't. I am swept away by the sound.