Good Morning Starshine

J. and I spend the next few minutes redirecting, and calming and listening, and there-there-ing everyone until all are in bed and snoozing. And then we pour a pitcher of beer.

We must plan debriefing cocktails with my sister and her husband. No one should have to own this alone. My need to relate the bizarreness of the last few days to another human rivals that of the farmer who saw the UFO land in his pea patch.

A thought occurs to me, but J. says it first.

"Sweetie, your mom and Bill didn't come here to visit with you and the kids. That was a sidebar benefit. You were really just a convenience. A bunk and a tap room."

I know this is true. And in my heart of hearts, I knew it long before tonight. It's just that every year, between the disappointment that is Christmas and the anticipation of the next visit, somehow the edges soften and the images fade and I believe for a while that it could just be about us sometime.

But it won't be. Won't ever be. Can't be. To light for a moment and be present in the world we've come to live in as adults is too much for Mom to endure on such brief visits. There is no time to be personal, to dig deep, to engage in meaningful interaction with her children. Perhaps she is afraid of what might churn up from the pit. Afraid she might get called upon to relate on some genuine human level. Whatever the reason, the conversations are impersonal, superficial, of no substance. Unless you consider "What kind of cheese is this?" substantive.

After a brief encounter with a pair of bats that seem to be homing for the pitcher of beer, J. and I turn in for the night.

I sleep the sleep of the dead but awaken early to the sounds of Mom and Bill preparing for takeoff. And truly, a DC-10 preparing to be airborne would make less noise. I privately vow to strangle them both if they wake the kids at this hour.

I hear all the details of the 17 point pre-flight checklist...the lugging of the suitcases. The coffee being made in the hated coffee maker. Mom whipping and teasing and backcombing and shellacking the hair with Ackwa-Net.

It is early but I am rested enough that I could conceivably get out of bed to see them off.

But then I begin to hear the familiar refrain:

Billy! Do you have your pills?
Billy! This has to go into the car before that or it won't fit.
Billy! Do you want some coffee now or do you want to wait until we are on the road? Do you want some cereal? A piece of toast? How about a nice bagel? Can I make you an egg sandwich? Billy, you have to eat something. Billy, don't walk away from me, I'm talking to you!

And as she follows him out to the car grousing for record periods of time between breaths, I pull the pillow in front of the clock to block it's LED reminder that it is a new day, and will myself back to sleep.