Tag Archives: family

Portrait of a (very specific) graduate.

6 Jun
image

How strange that there was a boxcar with a version of his name on it. He didn’t do it. I swear.

image

AWARDS! A shrine to all his hard work.

image

Clown…his very first friend.

image

His 1966 Gibson LG

image

This room doubles as a guest room. Just kidding.

image

Let’s just say that lockers were the best idea ever invented for the bedroom of a boy.

image

Art is important.

image

The HUGE spray-painted piece was commissioned just for him.

image

A dream catcher…

image

Proof: Right there are two pair of scissors…on his desk.

image

I will miss this loudness when he leaves for college.

image

Everyone needs a can of veggies under the bed. Zombie Apocalypse, and all.

image

Old school recording fun

image

He uses his pencils ’til the bitter end…

image

Zune user

image

How he treats the furniture…

image

Self-taught piano picker

image

In the middle of his bedroom floor lies a sad sock with an ink spot.

image

Clean clothes stuffed in a drawer that can’t close…

image

I’m betting these are headed to half price books…

image

The shrine he created on his bedroom door

image

Shrine, part two

image

His band, The Solar Compromise on one of their gig posters

image

His 2012 class at White Sands, NM, a couple of years ago

My elder boy graduates tomorrow. Eighteen years led to this very moment. He says, “It’s no big deal. It’s just high school.” But it is a big deal. It’s here that everything changes.

I’ve been working on a shrine, at least that’s what I’ve called it, in his honor (second photo). Basically this means I’ve moved all the awards he earned this year from our dining room table to the credenza beside our dining room table. I know. Hard work. But every time I add something to this collection of Things That Represent Him, something feels a little off. So finally yesterday I had an epiphany: Those awards? They only tell a fraction of the story. He is so much more. Hence, the rest of the photos.

He’s my scissors stealer, for one. There’s nothing quite like needing to cut apart a piece of paper, probably a permission slip for one of his field trips, and not being able to find a pair of scissors.

His walls are a crazy representation of his love for movies and music. And even though the posters aren’t necessarily from movies he loved (he works at a theatre), he chose to afix them to his walls with PACKING TAPE, leaving a permanent mark on his room.

His shoes are completely worn out. In fact, they’re now more like flip flops than tennis shoes. And he won’t stop wearing them.

He is, as they say, a hot mess.

I know, I know…I’m going to miss him when he leaves for college in the fall. I really do know this. He’s the closest manifestation of me outside of myself, of course, anywhere on this planet. So I get him. (My closet door closely resembled the back of his door when I was his age. Only I used stickers! I am STILL unable to put things, like scissors, back where they belong. And shoes? I wore a pair of ballet flats until the leather was full of holes when I was a teenager. And I’m working on some holes in my Mary Janes as we speak. And I’m 45.)

I’m SO  not ready for him to leave. I’m not finished with him yet. I haven’t taught him how to sort laundry or how to cook. I haven’t modeled keeping a clean house. I haven’t explained finances or STDs well enough.

What’s going to happen when he’s far away from home and he gets sick for the first time? Who will be there for him when someone breaks his heart? Who will wake him up when he fails to hear his alarm? Who will hold his hand when he crosses the street? Okay. I’ll admit it has been a few years since I’ve done that, but I’m sure there’s someone in his future who will bring hand-holding full circle.

I know, deep down, he’ll be fine. Because despite my parental shortcomings, I have taught him one very important thing: how to think for himself.

We may not have always modeled good behavior. I cuss too much. My husband and I  have argued in front of him. He’s eaten sweet cereal and pop tarts for breakfast almost every day of his life, except for the early nutrigrain bars and banana years.

Still he’s survived. Thrived even.

He’s so innocent, idealistic and naive. And I love those qualities in him. It stings a bit to know he’s on the cusp of becoming jaded. But maybe he won’t. Maybe he’ll be the exception.

All I want for him is happiness. And everything else good in the world.

He’s an amazing human being. So go ahead…expect great things from him. I can assure you he is going to rock this world.

Advertisements

The things we do for junk…

16 Apr

I could make a laundry list of the things I’ve done for junk, but I think you know the drill.  Luckily I have a very capable and willing teenage son who doesn’t mind jumping out of the minivan in a strange neighborhood to hoist a heavy screen door from someone’s trash pile.  He doesn’t even duck when I’m scoping out a broken dresser and having a quick word with the woman who tossed it.  I love him dearly… almost as much as junk.  Okay… I love him more.  Gosh!  So my patio is full of finds waiting to be painted, cleaned, repaired, toted to the shop.  May 1 needs to hurry and arrive since I’m on overload.  And I’m pretty certain my wedding vows may have said ” ’til junk do us part.”  I know my husband is ready to have the TV room back to normal.  It’s full of boxes from a catalog order, old doll heads from the 20s, a box of smalls waiting for May1, all those darn neck ties waiting to be sewn into a bag — I told you not to hold your breath…bags upon bags of beautiful pillows that take up SO much room, a dress form, that I must admit looks pretty hot in only her petticoat.  So it really is the things WE do for junk.  It’s not just about me.  My family puts up with it and seldom has a cross word to say.  They help me move van seats out of the van and back into the van.  They’ll load a piece of furniture on a moment’s notice without complaint.  The kids don’t even complain about the vintage smell of the minivan, though sometimes my husband says I smell vintage — especially when I’ve spent a lot of time driving around in the warm sunshine, soaking in all those old smells.  He loves me anyway, and I’m one lucky girl.