And...AWAY WE GO!!!

In a microburst of home improvement, my husband moved the dated behemoth that housed our old t.v. and stereo on to Goodwill one afternoon recently. As he was undecking that 90s-era cherry monstrosity, he handed me something that had been lying flat and unseen somewhere on top. Never breaking stride (when he gets ready to do something, he always leaves me somewhere bobbing in his wake, and I'm the one who has German ancestry and should therefore have a decent work ethic) he marshalled my oldest son and away they went to a rented truck sitting in my driveway. I was left holding a dust-covered photograph in a discount-house frame. It was Matthew, my oldest, now fifteen and all sinewy, nearly a man with broad shoulders and a dismissive grunt where once a "Hi Mom!" used to reside. This particular photo, however, showcased an entirely different Matthew. A two-year-old Matthew, bi-level skater haircut (what was I thinking), blue tank top showcasing noodle-thin arms, cowlicks all of the way around his head making his straight hair stand out in odd places around the skater's "cap" of locks. A younger version of my dad was standing beside Matt, grinning like a chesire cat. My son, not smiling and not grimacing, sat astride, of all things, an ostrich, on Chattanooga's Coolidge Park carousel. The double meaning was certainly not lost on me as I stood in my kitchen wiping dust from the center of the picture. At that point in my life, Matt was my only child and his journey was only beginning. I could still exert my considerable powers as a mommy to protect and defend him from nearly everything negative. And buddy, you better believe that I did! As I gazed at the carousel ostrich I thought of how I had been, unbeknownst to me, about to take the ride of my own life as Matt soared on into the real world, followed close behind by his brother Jonathan, a ride much wilder and more unpredictable than any astride an untamed ostrich would ever be. Motherhood is the, well, mother of all rides. It is an emotional rollercoaster of bizarre dimensions, contorting the spirit and soul in unimaginable ways, bending us until we are certain we should have broken again and again. I'll never forget my own mother's (she has four children) words as she sat beside my hospital bed after I had Matt. "Well," she intoned with a sigh, "you've drawn your last carefree breath." Truer. Words. Were. Never. Spoken.