2005_12 Breathe

Now that my boys are teenagers, I no longer see my life as hills and valleys. That may have been my life as a woman; but as a mother, it is one long canyon and cliff. Make no mistake: it is a high; it is definitely a high. But every day, I walk near the edge. Every day, I contemplate each step. Some days the going seems easy, and the view is spectacular. Some days I wonder how I’ll hold on, and how many will perish if I fall.

Tonight I made a difficult decision as a parent. My oldest was grounded. To his father, that included the Christian youth group, whose Christmas party was tonight. Because I choose my battles with the dad, just as I do with the teens, I let that decision stand. You see, he and I never contemplate parenting decisions together. This could not be construed as a partnership. I think about the consequences and lessons; my husband reacts.

But I digress. Mick was grounded for very good reasons. I would have included Christian functions in a category with school, as something that makes him better. I do not ground from events that improve people. Having said that, I’m fairly sure it is a battle I should have chosen. But I did not. As parents, we rarely know what is right. We take our chances, we do our best. It isn’t enough. We give it anyway.

I remembered taking calls from a friend when she was in love (with the man to whom she is married). They broke up often, due to many difficult differences in important topics: religion, politics, family. When she would call, the lament was the same: “I don’t know how to breathe; I’m not sure I can breathe.” True enough. I knew the feeling; I couldn’t help her a bit, but I could “be”. And so I did. I “was”. Tonight, I wanted so badly to call and tell her that I didn’t know how to breathe. I wanted to tell her that Mick was grounded, which included church group, and that he was on a hunger strike because “even inmates had the right to worship.” She knows him, she identifies with him; the humor would not be lost upon her. She would have laughed out loud at his creativity and ingenuity, and then felt sorry for doing so, and I would be able to breathe.  I wanted to ask if she had also been mean to her father, not just to her mother. She would tell me how sorry she was for the times she was mean as a teenager. And I would sigh heavily. And breathe. I wanted to know that this, too, would pass. I needed to hear that she had grown past being a melodramatic, manipulative teenager. Then I could breathe again.

I let it ring once. And hung up.

Tonight, she is Single Mom, her husband out of town, her kids young enough to be all-consuming at night. She does not need to help me breathe. That’s the beauty of girlfriends. Sometimes the really good ones can ease pain, can make you smile, while in the midst of their own bath-time crises. And because you know you could let the phone ring twice, you can breathe.