So, we went out for a birthday dinner for my husband last night, with our beloved son. The three or us have always been, well, the three of us—-as tight and cozy as a triangle, as sure as a three legged stool, albeit with all the opposing angles of such. It has not all been beautiful, but it has been sheer love that sustains itself over the bumps.
I was overcome with the day’s latest Jan. 6 hearing. No, I did not bring it up immediately, we talked of other things over appetizers. But then, always one who wants to make sure that my legacy to my son is to be aware and informed, I brought it up.
He looked at me with such sympathy when he said “Mom, let’s not have a dystopian dinner.” When is it exactly, that time when our children, now adult, look after us in a parenting way? When he said that, I felt it was my time to be parented a bit by my son.
My son is gay. I am crazy with fear of what I see happening in this country in so many ways, but none more so than the out loud religious bigotry that might hurt my son, and as a mother, I make no apologies for that.
I said back to him something about how I worry.
And he said back to me, and here I will paraphrase as this did not go down like words out of a novel. But his basic point was that he wanted me to RELEASE a bit. That in fact, he was worrying about me and my news junky self. That he was worried that in these later days of my life, I was not enjoying the simple things of beauty. He had all kinds of sort of irritating, LOL, self help ways I might do that, as if I have not been there, done that.
Still, when I tucked myself in last night, and reviewed our conversation, I was overwhelmed by his love of life, and his hopes, even as a gay man in today’s culture. And I thought to myself, well, if he can do it, I can do it.
And so, my son teaches me to hope. Once again. And hope is surely the best fuel for the fight, and I wish it for all my DK pals.