It can be a competitive place, my crowded little Tuvalu.
One feels it keenly regarding the children, but it extends to how one keeps their home or what car one drives. We are, presently, in the thick of the college application process with Youngest and he and I are well aware of the pressure around us concerning it all. Last weekend, at the supermarket, I heard mothers comparing notes: how many schools are being applied to, how fabulous the letters of recommendation are, which schools are safeties, reaches - I rushed away from the conversations bubbling up around me. I'm not comfortable with comparisons.
I remember when we did this with Middle. I was very pleased to be cut out of the conversations regarding important universities as Middle was going to Art School.
And, to some extent, I am able to dodge the topic again as Youngest intends to go to Art School. But there are countless forms to fill out and finances to be discussed and I'm feeling the pressure build.
Fortunately, this does not seem to faze Youngest. It certainly didn't have any effect on Middle.
After the whole college pressure cooker fades away people start pressing about when the kids are moving out. If they are done with university, or didn't go, why don't they get their own place?
People ask me all the time and, honestly, I know it's none of their business but I find myself cobbling together answers...Oldest does fine but not well enough for his own place nearby - it's very expensive. And Middle does very well but I think 20 is awfully young to have all the responsibility of an apartment. Youngest would love to live on campus next fall, but it is obscenely expensive...see? Now I've explained it again.
And, really, the point is, I don't see what the big deal is with moving out. I'm sure they are each eager to go and plan on doing so as soon as they can. But, in the meantime, I have no problem living with three interesting independent young men.
So, that's the backstory to something that happened this morning.
I was riding the train with Middle and observing, as I am wont to do, my fellow passengers.
Seated a few rows ahead of me but facing me was a man I see most days. A business man but with a child-like face, he gets on one stop after we do and says the rosary and then crosses himself each morning. One doesn't often see people praying on the train and that's how I first noticed him. Today I realized that he looks like he's wearing a school uniform, like a kid, with an innocent face though he's close to my age.
So, he does his prayers, makes his cross, reads the paper and we ride into town.
Middle, in his black tee shirt and jeans, plugs in his music and passes out.
(He has excellent sleep skills.)
We reach the station, people rise to leave the train, and Praying Man moves into the aisle to walk past where Middle is just waking and I am sitting and he looks down at Middle and with the most subtle body language and facial expression I saw this man
look down on Middle. This man whom I had silently admired for observing his faith in a public place looked at my son like he was garbage.
Well. I'm sure you can imagine how I did.
We left the train together and walked upstairs to where we usually do our special handshake/hug (a complicated and well choreographed display which I hope to eventually describe) and I burst into tears.
I told Middle how the man looked at him. Middle was nonplussed. He didn't flinch. He smirked a little and hugged me while I sobbed and told him how proud I am to be his mom.
How proud I am of him.
I can't even imagine how this man would have regarded my long-haired, bearded, tattooed Oldest.
But Oldest would not have been placid.
