Susan Senator

I believe that things like grief are recursive, but lately I wonder if that’s true for everyone, or is it more so for me because I tend to obsess and stay stuck in certain mindsets? Or maybe it is that for everyone, memories play a part in keeping us fixed in our lives, even the parts we thought were over.

Nat’s condition rests on me today, like an old afghan, mostly benign, maybe just a little itchy or moth-eaten. In the morning, after I suggested he watch or listen to something, rather than simply plant himself in the middle of the couch, I heard the familiar strains of The Hundred Acre Wood song. Well, that’s what he likes, my mind said in response to the complicated, muddy feelings seeping from my heart. The age-old questions: He’s still watching Winnie-The -Pooh? Is this okay? Is there something else I should be doing? Make him watch a real show instead of an old vid? “Nat, later on we’ll bake something, okay?” I called out, more for me than for him, thinking that to get Nat do do something with me is to propell him forward, to let him do his own thing is to allow stagnation.

I went off and did my thing. When I got back we all ate lunch and Nat reminded me of the baking. We got out Mom’s Big Book of Baking, as always, and chose a recipe; this time, molasses cookies. It all went just fine.

After that, I took a little nap and did the crossword. Nat was walking around again, I guessed he was looking for something to do. Or — is it that I wanted to see him “productive?” After all these years, he still does not know to get something out and play it. Is it that he doesn’t really want to play, or is it that he would prefer to remain in this, his easiest state, just walking fast and talking to himself. Today, though, I couldn’t take seeing him do just that, it made me feel pinched behind the eyes, so I became Teacher Mom for a while, suggesting we do puzzles, play games, anything that was “appropriate.” He willingly did it all, but the whole dime we were playing it was rote and rushed. The questions pulled at me; the afghan was feeling too small and my feet were getting cold. Is he enjoying it, or just tolerating it? Does he enjoy the pacing more? If so, why can’t that be the thing that he does?

“You want to listen to something now?” I asked. The little stereo wires lay tangled and disconnected, an upended bowl of dusty black spaghetti. The stereo had obviously not been working for a very long time. I felt absurdly like crying. “Max!” I called. “Can you help with the stereo?” Max came in right away and did his thing, looked at it, made clean sense of it in seconds, and the green face of the CD player lit up. But Nat was already standing, hovering, looking anxious as he gets over technology that doesn’t function properly the very first time. I remembered the iPod Dad had given him for his birthday, loaded with Simon and Garfunkel and the Beatles and Elton John — Dad’s favorites and also Nat’s. I hooked him up with the iPod and left him, sitting on his bed, hunched as if the earbuds weighed him down. I sighed. Or is he maybe relieved, relaxing, glad that I’m letting him be?

“I’m going back to my movie,” Max informed us. He’s watching a movie? Again? But I didn’t say anything. “Okay, honey,” I said. I was touched that he is still so helpful, so considerate, even as a teenager. Max, I also realized, is allowed to just veg, but Nat is not. Is that fair? Is that right?

I felt like I had done pretty much all I could, so I went downstairs to my crossword puzzle. What a fricken waste of time that is! Not to mention that I never complete them! Shouldn’t I…?

I guess I’m not really allowed to just do my own thing, either.

Maybe soon I’ll get to a point where I realize that there is no real way of judging what is an “appropriate” use of leisure time; it’s really all a matter of how comfortably we wear our lives.