May 7, 2008
Mother’s Day: The 5 year old Prodigal Son
It’s funny now to reflect on my mom’s absence in my life. Most of us choose to make autonomous moves to individuate. But when someone dies and is gone for a long period of time, those moves to be a separate person with a separate identity don’t seem to be as important as they did at the time. Makes me think of running away as a child.
Most children remember either wanting to run away or some small foray away from home. I’m 5 or 6 years old. I put some items together in a bag along with my lunch box. I had a “Lone Ranger” lunch box. I put some bologne sandwiches in there, sandwiches that I had made up myself. I had no idea how long I was going to be gone and as a result I was not going to be without sustenance for a long period of time. (What’s really funny is I packed a brown-bag lunch when my wife and I went to the hospital for the birth of my daughter. I was thinking the same thing. You never know how long these things are going to take.) In the bag was a change of underwear and a clean polo shirt. Grandma Sylves was big on always having clean underwear. When we would ask her why that was a big deal, she’d say, you never know when you’re going to get into an accident. And if you did, you want to make sure the doctors and nurses see that you have on clean underwear.” Somehow it made sense at the time, probably because I was a bedwetter. Accidents happen all the time with a bedwetter, but I don’t think that’s the kind of accident she was referring to. And that sentiment was not just my grandmothers, as I heard other kid’s mothers and grandmothers express the same thing.
Well, I don’t remember why I decided to run away other than I was mad at my mother and I announced to her I was leaving for good. And out the door I went around to the side of the house where the pasture was located. It is interesting that I chose that direction. As I reflect on it now, the opposite side of the house was the area where we spent the great majority of our time, so that wouldn’t seem like I was leaving. The front of the house was the road and we were instructed to not go out on the street. And directly behind the house was the woods and I was afraid to go there by myself. So the pasture in the side yard was perfect. I must admit I became aware of being anxious the moment I came up with this idea and the anxiety increased as I walked about 200 feet from the house. And then it hit me. What am I doing? The house looked so much smaller already. Was I really ready to leave? I felt so needy and powerless. At that moment I realized this was a “stupid” decision. I sat sideways, not towards the house and not away from the house. I think it was symbolic of my ambivalence.
My mom appeared at the second story window, smiling. Now that made me mad. “I thought to myself, “Can’t you see I’m running away.” And I folded my arms and turned my back to her. She asks, “are you mad at me?” I replied, “yes!” I can’t, for the life of me, remember why, but she goes on saying, “why don’t you come back inside so we can talk this over. You need to tell me what I did that made you so mad that you’d leave here before you were all grown up.” There was a part of me that wanted to jump up and run into the house and pretend I never did this. But I also remember thinking that I don’t want to be in too much of a hurry to return. I want her to think I’m really leaving and never looking back. So, I just sat there, hoping she would ask me again. Then it came to me, if I can get her to ask me three times, that means she really does miss me, would miss me if I was totally gone and wants me back. Then, maybe I could give her a second chance, but only if she asks me three times. That’s what a good son does, gives his parents lots of chances to make up for all their mistakes. Well, she asked me a second time saying she’d give me a cookie if I came back. And I thought, “Ha. It’ll take more than a cookie.” This is getting good. I already had my snack. And it’s not too long until dinner. So, I crossed my arms and turned my back to her a second time. And she followed with offering more goodies. “How about some kool-aid to go with that cookie? Would that get you to come in and tell me what’s wrong?” I was beginning to realize how difficult it was to say “no” to your mother over and over. And even though there was a part of me saying, “hold-out!,” there was that other part that saw my beautiful, loving, smiling mother in the window and I wanted to skip on home into her arms. Makes me think of the biblical “prodigal son” story. Everyone experiences it, boys and girls and it has to start somewhere. Being a prodigal son started for me in sideyard of the pasture with my “Lone Ranger” lunchbox, my clean underwear and my mother in the second story window of our farmhouse.