The good mom

I took Sam to church the other day. He hadn’t been for a while but there was a mass for my father. It felt it important he attend.

We arrived early to allow time to settle in. Sam spent his time traveling back and forth between reality and fantasy: sometimes blessing himself and talking about the large cross before us other times talking about the 30 tons of grubs he’d apparently just won.

Sam needed frequent reassuring during the mass, asking in his distinctively loud and low voice, “What’s the plan?” Though he dwarfs me, he intermittently laid his head on my shoulder and wrapped himself in my arms for security.

With this as my backdrop, I tried to focus on the words being said while periodically reminding Sam to be quiet out of respect for the people around us. This has been our life for so long, I sometimes forget its peculiar nature.

People are kind at this church, though. When I glanced up, I saw some smile and nod at us. I appreciated their patience and tolerance. Though I did not know some of their names, The familiarity of their faces was comforting.

After the mass was over, several came over to talk to us, some because they knew my father, others just because they were thoughtful people. Each tried to say something kind and reassuring, mostly centering on what a good mother I am and the connection between Sam and me. It was nice to hear their words; to briefly believe I was all they saw.

Later that day I watched Sam struggle in distress and I pondered their words. His connection to me was evident as he looked to me pleadingly to right his strife. Though I tried, I could not fix what tormented him. I did not know the source of his pain. And at that moment I didn’t, feel like a good mother at all but rather like a fraud. 

What's the plan?

Each morning I wake to the words, “What’s the plan?”

Because Sam lives in the immediate future it is an easy question to answer. Most days it is simply: “First get dressed, then eat breakfast, then go to school, come home and see Mommy. It’s a good plan.”

Sam officially blesses the plan by echoing, “Is a good plan.”  On the rare occasion the plan does not meet his approval he provides an alternate plan: “First get dressed. Put on my Sam’s shoes. Drive the car to the store. Buy some DVDs. Shrek Two, disk 2. Mommy, disk 2. Disk 2, Mommy!” Negotiations are generally simple and straightforward.

My Sam likes a plan. He takes comfort knowing what’s ahead.

I’ve never been a planner. I prefer keeping my options open and focusing only as far ahead as necessary. Where will we go tonight? What’s happening on the weekend? I am more inclined to ask, “Do we really need to make reservations that far in advance?”

Lately though, thoughts of tomorrow are on my mind as I begin to navigate the murky waters of Sam’s future. The first seventeen years have passed with remarkable speed. Our collision course with eighteen demands we look ahead. The tall teen before me is no longer a child.

I wish we could cling to today where Sam is safe and happy and loved. But only by planning for the tomorrows ahead that I can hope to provide him the same security. But what does the future look like? How will I know what I've crafted is right? As I ask these questions, I understand the comfort Sam finds in knowing “the plan" is complete. Like Sam I find myself asking again and again, "What's the plan?"

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