I was washing the dishes the other day when I heard snippets of my two grown boys (21 and 18 in September) ribbing each other. I’m not even sure about what - they have these little routines that are a hodgepodge of memes, viral media and private jokes. I’m not ashamed to admit that I turned down the water and eavesdropped. A not-so-subtle tease launched by the older brother was countered by falsely indignant protest from the younger. Feigned outrage rejoined the facetious denial, delivered in appropriately accusatory falsetto. This provoked an involuntary chortle of laughter, the attempted suppression of which could only be charitably described as unconvincing. One more round of friendly barbs ensued, and then the whole pantomime collapsed like a verbal soufflé, and out of that crumpled heap came the sweetest sound to a parent’s ears, that of your child’s uncontrollable laughter.
Newer parents, those whose milestones are measured in months or years rather than decades, will know exactly what I mean. When your baby begins to coo and laugh, and when your toddler squirms and squeals when you tickle: these are the purest moments of parental bonding, and just a few seconds can momentarily suspend the jadedness of the unending cycle of sleeplessness, parental anxiety, and constant tending-to. Alas, children grow. First, larger clothes replace the tiny ones. Your pride in their swelling independence meets the humbling awareness of hands that rebuff holding. The shock of the first swear words often portend a first taste of betrayal, hurt, self-recrimination. Somehow, as the innocence slips away, so does unbridled laughter, its sweetness now stained with life.
Like yours, our household isn’t made of cotton candy clouds; in fact there have been phases in life when tension between the boys, borne from the self-centeredness their individual trials demanded, made us wonder when and how we went so wrong as parents. I think what we did right, perhaps because there were no other realistic options, was to hold fast: to keep going it at it even when the threads were frayed. In time, they both went through what they had to go through, and then came back to something that more closely resembled their better selves, albeit older, wiser, and more cautious of life’s pitfalls and traps.
Ben and Zach are nearly men now. They are babes and toddlers no longer. But if life is calm enough, if their trust is deep enough, if their sense of self is whole enough, that they can have a good laugh at themselves and each other - then maybe, just maybe, they have lived enough of life to know that its many imperfections and flaws are punctuated by moments that give little glimpses of heaven. I hope that they, in turn, seek friends and companions who perforate life’s dark veil and let that sweet sunshine in.
May you receive, and proffer, such grace this week.
-J
P.S. Happy birthday, America.
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