This is My Body, This is My Blood

Where's Waldo's Mom?

Education is not preparation for life; education is life itself. John Dewey

On my first day of school, I figured I'd stand out like a banana in a bowl of grapes, but surprisingly, nobody seemed to notice (or care) that a 47 year-old student was in line behind them in the cafeteria, walking past the row of them in the bathroom without stopping to check her mascara, taking furious notes as if she were actually interested in the lecture. In fact, I've since learned from a few classmates (and one prof) that although they figured I was an older student, they had no idea how old.

Huh. I thought it was obvious. Just in case you're unsure, I came up with a few clues to spot middle-aged female students who are young enough to fit in, yet old enough to be your mother. She's the only one who:

...drives a minivan

...drops her kid on the frontage road before parking in the lot so he doesn't bear the shame of peers knowing his Mom goes to the same college.

...watches that kid walk up the sidewalk, rooting for him, hoping he's happy.

...has a few gray hairs in her blond pigtails.

...isn't bouncing her knees all during class after having consumed candy bars and soda for breakfast.

...wants to smack the kids who don't hold the door open for others, always come in late, act as if they're doing the world a favor by their mere presence.

...fans herself while all the other students wear sweaters and complain about the air conditioning.

...walks into the wrong classroom during the third week of school, shrugs and leaves, as though not mortified by such a nerdy faux pas

...asks the prof how big the type is on today's test because she forgot her reading glasses.

...waves the A on her history test in front of the kid, as if waiting for a raise in allowance or keys to the family car

...nods knowlingly as the prof talks about the Nixon years and the Viet Nam war without having read the text.

...has the urge to hug everyone in the room just because they're all so damn fresh and on the verge of their young lives.

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Whistler's Mother

The singer has everything within him. The notes come out from his very life. They are not materials gathered from outside.  Rabindranath Tagore

A couple of hours from now, I'l lie in bed with the lights out, but I won't sleep. Not until I hear those few clear notes as he whistles his way up the street on his way home from Subway will I fully relax. It's been a rough year for us. For him. I'm always relieved when I hear his melodic preamble even before I hear his bike roll up the gravel driveway.

From the time he was a toddler, I knew when J was up by the singing that drifted from his bedroom upon awaking. He still sings in his room sometimes but mostly now, he whistles. It's a reassuring sound, proof that he's survived another night of fighting off video game warriors, haggling with the two dogs for the biggest share of covers, and the miracle that keeps all his parts working in synchronistic perfection despite how many Dr. Peppers, Pizzas, and french fries he eats to fuel those melodic lungs.

A few weeks ago we walked through Farmer's Market as our local Fox station was setting up a booth for the third and final set of Central Coast Idol auditions. Earlier that afternoon I had dared him to try out--even printed out the lyrics to one of his favorite oldies songs, but he refused. "I'm not a singer," he said. But as we woofed down our BBQ sandwiches that evening, I double-dared him.

"Oh go on. It'll be fun."

He took a long pull on his soda before answering. "Ok. But if I do it, you have to turn the cable TV back on."

Ugh. I hate TV. But I really wanted to see him get up there and sing. "I'll make the appointment but you have to pay for it."

He made me shake on it before shuffling up the sidewalk to fill out an audition form and choosing "Mack the Knife" from a list of available karaoke songs. We waited  through a couple dozen of MariahCareyCelineDionAliciaKeyes wannabe's with a few country music idols thrown in for good measure. A couple contestants were fairly good, if not over the top on the runs and vibratto. Most of them were kinda bad. A few were embarassingly awful.

J was the next-to-last singer, right after they announced the karaoke machine quit working.

"Sorry, Mom. Can't do it."

I pulled a CD from my purse. "Wait! I still have "Happy Together" by the Turtles that I recorded earlier." I handed it to him along with the printed lyrics.

He looked at the CD, then at the DJ, then back at the CD before handing the disc to me. "I am officially a TV whore," he said, before queing his place on the steps to the stage.

The crowd loved the goofy kid with the crazy afro and mis-buttoned shirt. (Scroll down and click on Jacob's initial audition) They sang along with him, some of them swaying shoulder-to-shoulder with the familiar tune. And they clapped like crazy when he finished.

We walked home smiling--me with pride and him with the knowledge that he'd soon be getting his TV back. He never expected them to call to say he'd made the Top Ten--the only one without voice lessons and training. That a bunch of his friends would show up at The Clark Center to cheer him on during his performance of Mack the Knife. (click on Jacob's perfomance in the Final Ten box) That he'd make his mom smile like a jack-o-lantern on crack for a week running.

Thanks, kid. You made my day. You make my life.

Love,

Mom

NOTE: You have to listen to a commercial before the performance. Also, some people have had trouble viewing the videos.

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Bedroom Sweet

My mother moved the furniture when she no longer moved the man. The Story (The Angel in The House)

A few days ago I moved my bed back to where it was before S moved in. I don't know exactly what it was  that drove me to change it other than that I had to move it over for the satellite guy* to string cable through the wall which led me to clean under the bed which got me to thinking how much space that bulky headboard takes up which made me decide to give it to J which eventually led me to put the bed back against the east wall. As soon as I crawled under the covers that night, I felt more at home. I don't know all that much about feng shui (other than the crap stored under the bed is probably extreme funky shui) but I do know I slept like a drunk on payday that night and have nearly every night since.

As much as I enjoy snuggling with my snugglee, there's something about reclaiming one's space that feels almost bulimic--as though you've been stuffed with all these extra shoulds and hold-backs and then suddenly you just let it all out, take up every inch of the room with your own breath. For the first time in months (or years) you relax into the Who of You and it feels so damn good you laugh for laughing's sake until your kid hollers from the next room, asking what's so funny, which only makes you laugh harder.

In the middle of a recent night I turned over and reached across the bed, forgetting the wide open space of a frog on a queen sized lily pad. I pulled his my other pillow closer, then stretched myself diagonally across the great mattress, planting a toe in the furthest corner like a flagpole on an unclaimed planet. As I nestled back into the web of come-dreaming, I felt something tiny and rough against my thigh. In the netherworld of slow-moving limbs, I plucked a sunflower seed shell from beneath the covers and tossed it aside. As I fell back asleep I smiled the wide smile of cotton-breathed comfort on the threshold of full-blown contentment.

* I killed our TV in March and haven't missed it. J apparently has, as he's paying for it himself out of meager Subway wages.

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