My friend Christian was born to be a politician, and I mean that in a good way.
He’s dedicated to service and civic duty. He’s a natural leader. He’s a gifted public speaker.
He’s also a Mama’s Boy.
At his wedding almost exactly a year ago, I spoke with Christian’s mother at length. I had met her briefly a couple of times before. Her pride in her son was evident; everything he did was perfect, and everything he touched turned to gold.
A few hours from now, Aunt Bob and I will be leaving for Atlantic City to attend Christian’s mother’s funeral. Peter and Bump are staying home with the boys. Aunt Bob and I will put our sons to bed, then begin a necessary but useless effort to comfort another woman’s son.
The loss of a parent seems very raw today. Bump’s father is no longer with us, and I know the day will come when I will say goodbye to my own parents. Bump’s aunt died young, leaving a ten-year old daughter behind.
I worry about leaving Lumpyhead one day. I hope when it happens, he is old enough to have built his own life, secure in his own skin, ever mindful of how proud I am of him.
The concern about my own eventual passing is small compared to my fear of parenting alone. The life Bump and I have built is so dependent on us as a team right now, both of us working hard at it. I know people do it by themselves, but I cannot fathom how.
I have plans for the life Bump and I will lead once Lumpyhead and his sibling are grown. We will enjoy being alone together. We’ll grow old and share french fries and travel and watch tv. I want many years, many commemorations, and many milestones.
I know these partings will happen, I just want them to be a long way away.
It’s a morbid day, with morbid thoughts. Sorry. See you Wednesday.
3 comments:
These losses are so hard, no matter how old we and our parents are. I am sure it means a lot to your friend that you are there with him.
You guys are good friends. I'm sure it will mean a lot to him that you are there.
Would it make you feel better to lecture Lumpyhead for an hour on how you must "die first and he must outlive you by many many years because, dammit, I am your mother and what I say goes." I had a friend who did that with her teenager when he got his driver's license. That could distract you from worried thoughts, right?
Our car mechanic would tell you differently, however, because this week I noticed in his shop the sign which read "Never hand over your car keys to someone to whom you have given birth"
At any rate, you have a wonderful story about your friend's mom to share with him when you arrive.
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