MOVING ON

I went into my oldest son’s bedroom this morning to shut off his alarm clock. He’s got it set so that when he does sleep here at home, it comes on automatically each morning. Unfortunately, he doesn’t stay here much anymore. He’s engaged to a bright, sweet, young woman that I liked instantly when we met, and he pretty much spends all his free time with her. I am so very happy for both of them.

I sat down on his bed in order to facilitate the securing of his alarm clock. A simple matter really – just a press of the right button. I found that button and put an end to the radio voice. Silence quickly took hold of the room – the only noise being the hum of his computer off in the corner. Sunlight filtered in through his partially open window blinds. I glanced at his desk and saw so much of his life there. His music, some DVD’s, envelopes and paper, hand-written notes to himself and even a few boxes of .45 ammunition. There was a Ghost Busters ghost and an R2D2 robot. All things that told me he’s busy, but having fun too.

His walls spoke of various facets of his life. There’s a Metallica poster or two, drawings made by his friends, name-tag stickers you have to wear when you go to the gun range, a note from his great-grandmother telling him to seize life and kick its ass (not in those words, but you get the idea). There are posters from computer games and there are also things related to Kung Fu.

His book shelves are loaded with books of every stripe and fashion. Science-Fiction, Japanese & Chinese language books, novels, self-help, National Geographic, on and on. It’s really hard to describe – you just have to see it. On his dresser are a massive sword and some other Chinese martial arts accoutrements. There are statues and toys still in their boxes (he collects that sort of thing). There’s a fighting spear in one corner of his room, and right across from that is all of his massage-therapy stuff (he went to school and got his license). On one bookshelf is his tea-making stuff. There’s tea and an electric water heater.

To look into and visit Paul’s room is to see the boy that became a teenager and then a man. Memories, good memories, sluiced over and through my thoughts like the sunlight that dappled his bedspread and the carpet beyond it – lighting the silence and the memories as they tugged at my heart. And then, even though they were thoughts I didn’t want, they crept in – silent killers of happy thoughts. I tell myself all of the time to live my life with no regrets, but I can’t seem to forget over-disciplining him, or not spending enough time with him. I should have taught him more about working on cars and hunting. I taught him to fish pretty well, and I taught him how to shoot and handle a pistol, so there is that. Yet, no matter how I carve it up in my mind, I will never, ever get quite the same chance to make up for those things in which I failed.

Simultaneously, it was both satisfying and very difficult to sit there in his room and think upon these things. Just like writing this has proven to be. Those of you that have had children move on; you know what I felt and feel. It’s like when you hear that old Harry Chapin song, Cat’s in the Cradle. You just know, and you have to check yourself.

But I have to move on. We all do. Good luck, Paul. I love you and I promise you that raising you and your brother has been a privilege and a pleasure. I wish I could do it all over again. That you turned out as wonderful and amazing as you are is a testimony to your own inner strength and character – not my son-raising abilities. Of course, your mom had a lot to do with your up-bringing, and we both know about her character and strength. I wish you and Sam the very best, and you know that you can count on our unwavering support as you start your own family. Obviously this is not goodbye, it's just me trying to make sense out of your empty room, and the slice of my heart that feels like it doesn't want to let go.