Two things. A few things actually. My plaintive wailing in the bathroom over the fact that my son is turning 18 tomorrow, graduating in two weeks, off to Bard in August, and leaving the nest forever -- my little baby! -- has been interrupted or at least put on temporary hold by the news that Robert Rauschenberg has died. Not only one of the greatest American artists. Ever. But, part of the reason that I fell in love with my husband (whom I'm hating pretty vehemently at the moment, through my wailing, and snotty tears but I'll get over it, I'm sure, soon enough). The first "date" we ever went on (aside from picking magic mushrooms in the Christchurch Meadow en route to take his old Olivetti typewriter into be mended) was a dance piece by Twyla Tharp, using images by Robert Rauschenberg and music by Brian Eno (during the My Life in the Bush of Ghosts period). Of course, now that I try to find evidence or the name of the work, I am flung into Catherine Wheel land, but it definitely wasn't the Catherine Wheel. It was a pretty seminal moment for me. I'd never seen modern dance before and certainly I hadn't experienced anything as avant garde as that collaboration. I found it mesmerizing and of course became wildly fascinated with J because he'd brought me there, in my Madonna necklaces and bracelets and pointy flats, all wide-eyed from Aldbury, Nr Tring, Herts.
Meanwhile last night I'm trying to organize a dinner for N's graduation and I find myself sitting down to write to his godparents. My mother-in-law has a thing about traditions. We tease her mercilessly about it. But she insists that traditions are important rituals in our lives and we need to keep them up and also create new ones because they help us both mark and make sense of life. Now I understand why she think this stuff so important. Tomorrow he will be 18 (and able to buy cigarettes and go to strip clubs, he tells me last night) and then he's off. The dinner will just be the family. He doesn't want a lot of people there. He'd rather not do it at all, he says. But we have to, I say, we have to mark this and remember it, it's important. He rolls his eyes at me. What about our English family, he asks, and our family in Norway? Ugh, it's so hard being so far away from everyone when these Important Dates come along. I can imagine my mother making a huge fuss; bringing out the old Danish china, the silver, white linen, flowers on the table, a feast for this day. I am so lost here sometimes. I'm stumbling about. So I write to the godparents (after two large glasses of Chablis) -- there's four of them -- and it comes out something like this:
Hello beloved godparents,
I know, it's embarrassing how bad I've been at keeping you apprised of that little baby boy that you kindly agreed to parent in the eyes of God (clearly, something I managed to wrest away from J before he could get his sticky little hands on it -- the God thing, I mean). I apologize. I guess having a baby at a young age doesn't really equip you sufficiently to deal with the awesome-ness that is growing a child. Certainly I find it awfully hard to imagine that
the very same little baby is graduating high school June 5 and will start at Bard College August 11. The good news is, he's big and strong and bright and happy. He's had a wonderful internship at Warner Bros. Records which he loves. He's working at the bike store this summer. He has a date for the prom. He has a hip-hop website he's passionate about (www.novelsone.com). He still fights with his sister and regularly questions his father's wisdom. As far as I can see, he's a happy kid who enjoys the nuance of debate with his parents (oh, don't you love that I can parse that out so effortlessly?) and complain about the current political establishment.
This email is for nothing other than to tell you what's going on and to ensure that if you're ever in Annandale-on-Hudson, NY, you'll go visit my (our) little treasure.
Thank you from the bottom of my heart for being lovely godparents, at a time when none of us really knew anything. I think we've raise a good one.
Much love,
And it wasn't much of a big deal last night. But this morning, here I am, propped up on the cold bathroom floor, with my back against the tub, laptop on my knees, crying like a little girl.
I've just downloaded The Catherine Wheel in the hopes that it will cheer me up. What am I thinking? If they find a body with a pair of scissors in her heart, it won't be another victim from Phedon Papamichael's brilliant teenage horror film. If there's too much blood and they can't recognize the body, just ask them to check the pants - she'll be wearing breeches and very ugly navy nylon riding socks. And could someone let that nice man in Buenos Aires know that the "custom" riding boots he made me still don't fit despite four stretchings.
No comments:
Post a Comment