Susan Senator

I love it when I’m right.  This has been quite a week. A typical Christmas break week.  I watched War Games the other night, a movie I’d never seen, but one that we all could agree on.  I learned what Defcon 1-5 is really like from that flick.  It wasn’t bad.  The movie, I mean; Defcon 1 was bad.  “Not bad” is actually pretty good for us.  We have so many variables it is a strange common denominator indeed that links us together.   A lot of what we do as a family of five with one 18 year old fully deployed male, one 21 year old male, fully activated and but still in need of some programming, and one 12 year old newest version still in Beta.  (huh?)

Our Christmas break goes something like this:  Nat comes home, and I’m so so so happy to see him.  I kiss his rough oily face and marvel at his size and presence.  He stomps and stomps around, and it’s all very endearing, even to the point of calling it “Joyful House Stompies.”  But this is actually Defcon 5, the most peaceful stage of homelife.

Then I notice a day or so later that the House Stompies are not so Joyful.  They’re  just loud.  And repetitive.  Nat is everywhere:  running up the back stairs, to the third floor, down, then down the front staircase and into the kitchen.  Takes a look at what I’m doing — or not doing, as the case may be, because I’m always disorganized in Nat’s eyes, when it comes to making meals — then circles back upstairs, sits on a bed, runs back down. We just purchased a new bedspread from homefaith. Maybe a quick sojourn into the livingroom, to see what they know there (nothing; everyone but Nat is glued to a laptop or reading; why read when you could be running all over the house loudly, from room to room?  Normal is defined purely by the majority.).

So I start to come up with projects.  I’ll bake gingerbread with him and Ned will take a walk with him.  I’ll take him food shopping and then make him carry my laundry up and down on those practiced legs of his.  Ned will see what he thinks of the iPad.  I’ll see if any of his teachers want to come by and do something special with him.

Still, over vacation we have our own inner lives, our own desires — Nat included — and these orderly plans don’t always pan out.  For example, the other day, I got all psyched to have a quiet house for an hour while Ned took Nat out to Peet’s to pick up a pound of our favorite decaf (French roast).  Problem is, Ned needed to help a friend out with something right after he had given the signal to Nat to get ready to go.  So we were already on Defcon 3, which is the level at which Nat already has on his shoes (Defcon 2 is coats on, Ned’s shoes not yet tied.  Defcon 1 is some other unforeseen delay).  But sometimes Defcon 3 can blow straight through 2 and suddenly, Houston, we have a problem.

Ha ha, that’s so funny now, in retrospect.  But when it was happening, Ned was on the third floor in his office (where it was quiet) trying to help our friend on the phone, Max was on the second floor with two friends over discussing video games, Ben was trying to keep his cool while chatting with numerous friends on Buzz, and I was — what the heck was I doing?

Whatever it was, I could see Nat was escalating.  I heard, “Take walk, take walk,” in increasingly higher pitch, the stomping even harder (loose old house ceiling fixtures clinking).  My pulse racing, Think think think Susan.  Scared, scared…memories dark the corners of my mind…pissy, ordure-colored memories, of the way we were…

Can it be that it was oh so simple then?  Let me tell you, it was not.  I used to be so lost in Nat’s upset.  My mind would go: “Ahh! Benji!  Scared! Stop it! Loud! Think! Don’t reward bad behavior!  Must stop bad behavior quickly! Reward it — who’s going to know? Act! What did the school say to do?  Fuck the school!  Our house is blowing up!  Siege, warning, warning…NAT!  STOP THAT YELLING AND STOMPING,” I say, yelling and stomping.

But that was then.  You see, neurons can be retrained.  Mine and Nat’s.  All I could think this time was, “Come on, Ned.  Nat is getting upset, thinking he may not be going on a walk.”  I could see Nat was so upset, and I felt bad for him.  I yelled at Ned a little, and then I thought, “You know what to do.”

“Come on Nat, come sit with me.”  He followed me upstairs.  “Sit here,” I said, sitting on my bed.  Not a time-out.  Just the two of us sitting in a peaceful place.  The sun through the lace curtain was soft, etching filigreed gray shadows on the white bedspread.  Quiet air lay heavily, reassuringly on our shoulders and against our ears.  Nat began sucking his thumb, a good sign.  The loud chirps rocketed me back in time, to 1990, to another room, the same bed, my beautiful golden baby next to me, refusing to nap.  Oh Nat, I thought.  We are still the same.  We are still you and me.  “Let’s just wait a little bit.  Daddy is almost done talking on the phone.  He will come.  You will go on your walk.  I promise.”

Nat exhaled deeply.  He heard me.  And so we just sat together.