Midweek days off

I have, more or less, a day off today. I got up slightly after the sun at 6am or so, had my morning “check email check Financial Times” routine to reassure myself that the world had not, in fact, imploded over night, did the normal morning ablutions, and took the dog for a walk. I prepared the boy’s lunch and, as the hour of departure approached, gave him the morning weather report (quite chilly this morning, almost freezing: shorts are fine because you’re a boy and this is Maine and it’s May, but wear a fleece jacket please) and then, come 7:54, pushed him out the door and down the street to get on the bus.

My day, though, was blessedly free. I had managed to apply a scheduling flamethrower to the day after a couple of past weeks of non-stop activity, travel to Texas last week, 8am to 6pm nonstop calls this week, and I wanted a day off.

It has been lovely. But I’ve also realised that I’m happily, permanently done with the notion of ever having a day off again. It’s not that I have so much to do: I had to swing by the grocery store for some supplies, sure, and I’ve been working at a low level on a few long term projects, but really, the successful construction of a human life consists of having a series of things that require your attention. They may feel trivial to an outside observer – living up to my erstwhile “duties” as a library trustee, or making sure my son’s mother is on the same page as me for upcoming doctor appointments, or even just making sure my water bill is paid, which was the subconscious reason for my waking up substantially earlier than I really had to today. But it strikes me that the slim and fragile interconnectedness we have with others is, in a real way, the high point of being human.

As the boy gets older, I keep marvelling at how he seems to be settling into self-sufficiency with surprisingly little effort on my part. I cook, clean, and do dishes, and this spring, I’ve started giving him more substantial household chores (he’s mowing the front lawn this year, his first big landscaping task; he’s getting schooled in replacing light switches and changing the oil in the MG in coming weeks as well). But all in all, he’s showing all the good signs of realising without explicit education the basic “activities of daily living” which, in coming decades, my future incompetence in which will eventually relegate me to a skilled nursing facility: making tea for himself, cleaning up after himself in the bathroom after a shower, finding clean clothes in the laundry instead of asking me to bring them up. Separating lights from darks, and knowing to aggregate the various hampers upstairs before bringing dirty clothes to the mud room. Keeping his boots off the rugs. I may or may not have told him to do this, don’t do that, but I don’t remember it: he’s just picking up on the simple civil activities that keep my house – will keep his house, already keeps his house – clean and easy to live in.

Similarly, I’m pretty sure I’m not lecturing him or even occasionally sitting him down for Parental Conversations (note the capital lettering, indicating severe significance) on how he should treat other people or how he should react to uncomfortable situations. Instead, I try to demonstrate good behaviour – always treat strangers kindly, and listen to them; once someone is known, however, if they are a jerk, treat the with reciprocal respect and avoid them and redirect others away from them whenever possible. The boy is doing a fine job at that too, albeit sometimes he’s too willing to reveal explicitly who he deems to be deserving of respect and, vice versa, to reveal who he deems to be disreputable. But discretion is a second – or maybe even third-order task. I’m just thrilled that, at age 11, his direct discernment and his polite behaviour is now so routine.

The lesson that puzzles me, right now, as he starts to hit puberty and as my rhetorical and pedagogical skills begin to reach their natural limit, is how to show him what it is to love. I associate love with surrender – not a milquetoast kind of hangdog panting, mind you, but an acceptance of love as an absolute, with me as a fixed, finite, variable being. Embracing love – of a partner most especially, of one individual to another; but even in the way we fall down and embrace our parents, or our children – is an act of surrendering in all of our capable-of-fault individual human selves in front of a concept of absolute love. I want to show the boy that I love him no matter what, even though I’ll continue to monitor and enforce limits on his screen time and will demand that he stay open to trying new things at dinner. I want to show him that he is free and open to explore what love is knowing that I will never, ever stop loving him, no matter what he does to me or doesn’t do to me.

Demonstrating that is an odd trick, especially when I have no one, day to day, in my adult life, who fills that role for me. So I’m caught in an interesting bind, where I wish to reveal to my son the possibility of love for another adult – in all of its messiness, in all of its power, in all of the powerlessness we inevitably feel in the presence of such force – without actually having a subjective magnet in front of me who absorbs, reflects, attracts, and generates my will to surrender.

Instead, I just have him. I’m hoping he sees it all, and I think he is actually smart enough to pick up on the subtleties. Or rather, not smart enough: just aware enough, even at age 11, that there is something worth surrendering too, that his father has seen and recognized and will never abandon, ever, and that merits staying aware, humble, and ready to give oneself up to when the moment and the person demands it.

A midweek day off is a good day to ponder such things. It’s almost over; the boy’s bus will drop him off in about a half hour, and I’ll have to go pick up the dog from day care, and there’s a Zoom call for the town at 4:30pm. But I’ve had the time, and the upcoming connections make me keenly aware that I’m part of the great collective experience that is being a loving, open human being. I’ll be ready for tomorrow when it comes.

Oh, and a quick shout out: I’ll be in London – finally again, for the first time since the pandemic – from 10 to 13 June. I would love to see any and all Essence of Water fans who are in the area. I will pick up the tab.