I married, mortgaged, and matured a few years before starting a family. Then, it was with goose bumps and awe that we watched the shadowy ballet of our child moving and growing inside me. We posted every ultrasound image on our refrigerator. We giggled our way through Lamaze classes, panting and practicing for the big day. And we embraced the concept of “pain with a purpose.”
No drugs for our baby.
Our firstborn son, Joey. Nine pounds zero ounces of solid miracle.
When Rick was born two years later, I had a miracle for each hand.
As different as the sun and the moon, my boys shine on the world with their own special light. Joey is thoughtful and opens doors for old ladies and likes to bake cakes and plan celebrations for the people he loves. He grills up a great steak, and would rather fish than sleep. He has a chiseled face and a smile that melts hearts, and with his fair complexion and blond hair he takes after me. Rick is funny, easygoing, and loyal. He likes noise and winning at games, prefers to eat things that can be dumped out of a box, and does not like to waste time on things like cleaning house. With his thick head of dark hair and eyes the color of rich cocoa, he’s a near replica of Joe.
Life before children was like singing a song without knowing the words, or like knowing soft without having touched a puppy’s forehead. My days were far less full-bodied then, but I didn’t realize that until I had Joey and Rick. A first-grade teacher before my children were born, I have had the full-time job of “Mom” ever since. I wanted to be home to catch a glimpse of the unexpected precious moments—and to put a halt to the not-so-precious ones, too. Because our family moved on to a new state or country with near-biannual rhythm, there seemed to be a constant need for beds, balls, bodies, and beginnings to be hustled along and settled in. My boys have brought out the best in me and the worst in me—they’ve brought out all of me—and I’m more the person I was meant to be for having been their mom.
With Joey now seventeen and Rick almost fifteen, their childhood is just the bulb from which they blossomed. But, along with their treasured Teddy and Blankie, it’s tucked away in a special place for safekeeping.
I can only imagine where I’m going to want to tuck teenhood.
We cancel our Thanksgiving trip to the Camel Fair in Pushkar, making up an excuse for our staying close to home instead of saying to the boys that we fear Joey might keel over in the middle of the desert.
Just as it’s not easy tricking Joey into going to an eating disorder clinic, it’s not easy to trick him into completing his college applications early so he won’t miss the deadlines he doesn’t know he’s going to miss.
“Joey, if you earn a college scholarship, and complete the requirements for Eagle Scout, we’ll give you a car for graduation. And if you get your college applications done in the next two weeks—before we leave for California—we will take you to look at cars while we’re there,” I say.
“Just think, you would be able to use your car for getting to work or getting away from campus for some camping and fishing,” adds Joe. “As long as you take a full load of classes, maintain at least a B average, and don’t ever drink and drive, the car would be yours.”
Joey is thrilled about the possibility of car shopping in a few weeks.
Bribery accomplished.
I’ve collected a suitcase full of schoolwork from Joey’s teachers that will hopefully keep him on track to graduate while he’s hospitalized for his eating disorder. There’s been speculation on campus that the decline in Joey’s appearance and mood might be due to drug abuse. Thank goodness that’s not the case. I’ve heard that drugs are easy to come by here—as easy as signaling to a certain dented green rickshaw circling outside the school gate—so I guess things could be worse.
India. She’s a beauty. So colorful and proud, she wears even poverty and overcrowding with a certain grace. But the need in India is overwhelming—and so, I’ve been trying to save babies for the past year. What started as the holding and feeding of orphans evolved into learning about afflictions such as anal fistulas, clubfeet, and hearts with holes, and then raising money to change the fate of the little orphans who have them. It evolved into the Moms’ Circle of Love, a circle of loving expats all volunteering their time to the same cause. Now, before my departure, I’m handing off baby Prisha—one of the orphaned babies who brightened our home for weeks and months pre- and post-life-altering surgery—to one of the other substitute moms.
Have I been too busy with sick babies to see the sickness in my own son? So much for my oft-spoken motto, “Love Begins at Home.” What other things have my boys seen me do that were at odds with what I said?
I would never have allowed them to eat a whole bag of Oreos in an hour or only salads for a week—but I have done both. “Love yourself for who you are,” I told my sons, while not ever finding myself quite right—always either too thin (once) or too fat (more than once). Did I flip-flop Joey into an eating disorder with my mixed messages? I crashed the car once because of an immediate need for lipstick. Will my boys now disregard that thing I keep telling them about keeping their eyes on the road at all times? I tried yoga once, but when I planked it was only in my mind; I looked like a log—but I was a quitter. Oh, what have I done that can’t be undone?
The short years of childhood don’t allow much time for slapping down the solid brick-and-mortar foundation of fulfilled and capable adults. I tried. I had good intentions. But I messed up—a lot. I guess I always hoped some cosmic scale would balance out all the rights and wrongs. Or some benevolent scorekeeper would just look the other way once in a while. Now I guess I hope I’m right.
In leaving India with one son, I leave the other behind. That there’s no real choice in my doing so doesn’t make this any easier. Even though Rick will be in the caring hands of my friend Cindy and her family until Joe’s solo return, I’m leaving him parentless in a foreign country. I feel sick not knowing when I’ll see him again. Dropping him off at his temporary home, I walk Rick to the front door. He’s ready to make a quick good-bye of this, but I don’t care. I take a deep breath and freeze the moment. Closing my eyes, I inhale the aroma of chocolate mixed with boy sweat, and I memorize the feel of barely-there bristles rubbing against my cheek as I hold my young son close.
The trip from New Delhi to Los Angeles via Beijing lasts twenty-seven long hours. Nerves stretch over the thousands of miles like ribbons of silk caught and pulled by the wind until frayed to threads. Joe and I never discussed whether he would make this trip with me; we didn’t need to. He’s always been there for his sons—from changing diapers to pitching tents to just hanging out doing nothing at all—and this wouldn’t be any different. Joey’s not in any mood to appreciate that, but I do. Wedged between my taut-jawed travel companions, I pretend to read and eat and sleep, and I pretend we’re a happy family, countering Joey’s snappishness with sweetness or eye-contact-avoidant silence. My elbow brushes Joey—the tightly wound bundle of sticks sitting to my left.
“Get off me,” he sneers, jerking his arm away. As though I’ve stabbed him. “I can’t believe you’re making me see this doctor. I’m not sick. You’d better make reservations as soon as we land to have me back on a plane to Delhi right after the appointment tomorrow.” When we finally land, Joey is so tense that he appears even more shrunken than his already shrunken self. I’m surprised he makes it all the way to the hotel before snapping.
Jet-lagged, rumpled, and weary, I roll
