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Tuesday, November 06, 2007
growing, growing, gone
Lately I have been getting really maudlin (again) about The Passage of Time and How Fast They Grow Up. I know, I know, when am I ever not (answer: never), but this latest spree of sentimentality in particular began when I looked across the room and couldn't tell who was taller, my mother or my son. And my mother is not one of those dinky petite little women; she's 5'5" or 5'6" -- pretty average for an adult.* As often happens, I found myself getting choked up thinking about that little squeaky toddler boy who grew into the leggy, squeaky preschool boy who seemed to vanish overnight and leave this gangly, solid preteen, whose voice I swear I heard crack the other day, in his place.
Then I was, as aforementioned, reading Annie Dillard (how do I love thee?), and she sucked me in with sympathy and then slapped me around a little bit:
"...few, if any, women love anyone so much as their children... Often she missed infant Petie now gone -- his random gapes, his bizarre buttocks. How besotted they gazed at each other nose-on-nose. He fit in her arms as if they two had invented how to carry a baby. [...] Later she washed his filthy hair and admired his vertebrae, jiggling his head in toweling that smelled like his steam. She needled splinters and sandspur spines from his insteps as long as he let her. That is who she missed, those boys now overwritten. Their replacement now sat at the green table wiping crumbs onto his plate. [...]
She confronted the sink. How she wished she could see all those displaced Petes and Peties once more! She imagined joining picnic tables outside by the beach and setting them for 22 Peties and Petes, or 122, or however greedy she was that day and however divisible Pete. Together the sons at every age and size -- scented with diaper, formula on rubber nipples, salt-soaked sand, bike grease, wax crayon, beer, manila, engine oil, fish -- waited for dinner. Who else knew what each liked? It was a hell of a long table. She gave herself a minute to watch them -- Petie after Petie barefoot near his future self and past. They pinched or teased or shoved one another. All but the babies ignored the babies. What mother would not want to see her kids again? When this sort of thing got out of hand, Lou called herself 'Poor Mom'. She dreaded 'Poor Mom', her periodic walk-on role as grieving and piteous victim. Lou spied her from a distance floating long-skirted over the sand, hands on face. Lou gave the hag a short hearing to shut her up, and tea in a cup. 'Poor Mom,' she commiserated: her child grew up."--Dillard, Annie. The Maytrees. New York: HarperCollins, 2007.
Whew. Thank you, Ms. Dillard. I needed that.
*(Since I know the suspense is killing you, it turned out that she's still about three-quarters of an inch taller than he is, but you couldn't tell, what with his thick golden wavy Mediterranean-Italian hair standing up all over his head.)
Comments
I had similar thoughts yesterday about my 15-month-old. I can't imagine your thoughts with the handsome pre-teen you have. I noticed how grown-up he was in the "2007-05-15--LT-intense" picture on your photostream a while back and was amazed.
Thanks for sharing the Dillard quote. I was sucked in with the sympathy too, thinking of the table with all the Petes at it.
Posted by: mary at November 6, 2007 09:39 AM
You know, I don't think I've ever read any Annie Dillard... that was TERRIFIC.
Posted by: Beck at November 6, 2007 01:57 PM
brief reminder: The poor moms are the ones whose babies *don't* grow up. You are a lucky mom.
Posted by: dichroic at November 7, 2007 11:01 PM
Paula: You're exactly right. I know that I would a million times rather see 122 Natalies lined up at a long table than 122 LTs, because at least I have the LTs in my memory. The Natalies are just wistful speculation.
I kind of thought Dillard was -- not exactly poking fun, but not seriously chiding, either -- the idea of feeling sorry for yourself because your child grew up -- although more in an "it happens to everyone, you self-absorbed twit" way than in a "you're just lucky he DID grow up" way. But you're totally right. Trust me, I know exactly how lucky I am. Pardon me while I go kiss both of their sleeping little faces.
Posted by: Rachel at November 7, 2007 11:13 PM
Um. Oops. That may have set a new record for tactlessness even for me. I apologize as deeply as I know how, because I did know about Natalie and had forgotten.
I knew you knew better about regretting their growing up except that of course everyone is wistful about time passing, but I also know how easy it is to get sucked into your own sadness sometimes (for me at least). I know you're a great mother with great kids and just wanted to remind you of the 'much joy' in your profile. But I had forgotten that joy doesn't necessarily mean lack of sorrow, and again I apologize. I don't presume to speculate on what happens after death, but no matter what or how, I know Natalie will never be too far away from you.
Posted by: dichroic at November 8, 2007 05:33 AM
