Que Sera Sera (a long rant, full of sound and fury, signifying little)

August 25, 2006 | Category: Family, It's a Trip

Growing up, I never knew a lot of money. Even so, my family and I had a certain way of life. We skiied, and played tennis, and swam. My dad's parents had a little cottage on the water by Gloucester, so much of the summer would be spent there - taking out the little sailboat, walking the beaches, and at night playing endless rounds of gin rummy.

There was always a week spent on Cape Cod, usually shared with another family to save money - a gaggle of giggling kids stuffed in sandy sleeping bags at night being yelled at to go to sleep by the parents who were smoking and laughing over bridge games in the other room.

Holidays and special occasions were a New England stampede of relatives in madras and polo shirts. My mom's siblings and their kids, my dad's parents, his brother, and assorted pseudo-family of folks who had been friends of the family going back for generations. Whose grandfathers had been close with my grandfathers, whose mothers had double-dated with my mom.

There was always a kids table, even when the event was FOR a kid - which galled us under-21 set. Little Jimmy just played in the State Finals and aren't we proud of him and he's over there at the rickety card table sharing burgers and chips with the 4 year olds. But it was the way things were.

Maybe that's why, even though I was bullied as a kid, I came out OK. Because, man, I always knew I was loved. And I mean, bone-deep love by a family as varied and wide as a village. The kind of love that doesn't care if you're a pain in the ass and a show-off and have shiny braces on. Because I was one of the clan. I was claimed.

And this is what I wanted for him. For my Bear. For my miracle child with bright red hair and a zillion freckles.

I wanted him stamped with the seal of family, for all the world - and mostly him - to see. I wanted him at that damn kids table, eating with a plastic fork. I wanted him looking up from his tournament or recital to the embarrassingly loud hoots and hollers of a dozen relatives. I wanted him to know, into his blood, that there was a village out there - the security of that.

But I made a mistake.

I moved away. I left Massachusetts for Chicago and London and anywhere else and I never looked back. So I shouldn't be surprised that the rest did, too.

I shouldn't be. Yet, I was.

The world I grew up in is gone.

I suspect it faded away long ago. It's just that I wanted, so much, for my son. It hurts me to admit how much.

Each Thanksgiving, spent with just CD and Bear and I curled up on the couch watching a movie and eating take-out. Each special occasion - when Dee's presence or my mom's (who, really, is Bear's number 1 fan) was all that marked a difference. Something felt missing.

I should have been building new traditions, instead of working so hard to resurrect the ones I knew. And to my son, and my husband, who feel happily complete with just us - there is no understanding of why I am looking around, looking for more.

They do not see ghosts of holidays past. The room doesn't feel quiet. They do not miss the laughter and chaos they never knew. This is just me. And something I must let go, so that what I want doesn't tarnish what I have. I left for Chicago 20 years ago, and built a new life. It was incredibly unrealistic and selfish of me to think that the old one had waited for me and my child. That time hadn't marched on everywhere.

My father invited CD and Bear and I to join him and his wife and her kids (I'd met the son a couple of times, but never the daughter) at a Cape Cod rental house. Dad and his wife have been together for 12 years, since her kids were little. Built a life together that was kept pretty separate of me. I don't know why, maybe because I was already living in Chicago when they got together.

So we said yes to the invitation, because hey - its the Cape. And my dad and his wife took us yesterday on a Whale Watch - something I'd never done before. Bear was uncertain about the whole thing but soon was scampering about the boat giggling and watching the Humpbacks fluke and spout.

We were lucky, the whales came so close they actually swam under boat. I leaned forward an told my Dad's wife how thankful I was they they had brought us - it was an adventure we could not have afforded to give Bear this summer. And he was absolutely thrilled by the Whales and was learning so much.

She turned to her daughter and they tried to figure out if the whales had ever come so close before.

And I sat there and quietly realized that they had been coming to the Cape every summer.

Looking at whales every summer.

The same weeks that we'd been here, and never occurred to them to say "hey, come down and join us for a day".

I don't know why that was the final piece to my revelation. I don't know why that's what finally made it all click in my mind.

It stung to realize how excluded we'd been. That especially my little son, my father's only grandchild...

Yeah. I choked up a little about that. Yeah, I did.

I walked up to the bow of the ship, and stared into the sunset, and tried not to cry. Just a little self-pity party.

It's hard to feel left out. No matter what your age. Especially when you've worked so hard on your child's behalf to be included.

Up on that bow, the wind tangling my hair. I thought, how I missed my Uncle Mike. How I missed my grandmother, my dad's mom, who had been such a good friend and the heart of that side of the family. How I'd tried so hard to stay connected to my family and CD's family and how, really, it had been this sort of silly fruitless effort.

And with deep breaths, I realized - This is now. Things have changed. So what if I am no longer part of a big family that I can share with my son.

And then I realized.

I am still claimed. And so is he. And so is CD.

We claim each other.

Our village is small, our family just a handful. It is time to stop thinking that somehow means it is less.

We are healthy. We are together. We can enjoy my dad and his family for this moment. We can experience these whales.

I finally noticed the beautiful sunset. The blue waves. The lighthouses in the distance as we made our way back to port. My son, laughing and giving CD a run for his money.

I let go of the rail, and remembered the camera. Thought to take some pictures of these memories.

I let go.

Mostly.

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