“No, you cannot.” I point upward. “Upstairs. Now.”
He mutters and grumbles but does as he’s asked, because honest to God… he’s such a great kid. I get a kick out of all these little battles as Travis ages and matures. The way he’s pushing boundaries and rules is a rite of passage.
Or so my sister, Reba, assures me—she has a son of her own, although he’s four years older than mine.
Just a few days ago, I was working on a grant proposal at the kitchen table while Travis finished his homework for the evening. He closed his math book and started to head upstairs so he could watch his allotted half hour of TV.
I didn’t even look up from my work. “Hey, bud… do me a favor and load the dishwasher?”
“No way… that’s your job,” he said. “I unload and you load.”
I lifted my head and appraised him. I had to bite my tongue not to laugh because he looked so earnest in his evaluation of how things work between a parent and a kid.
“No,” I drawled, leveling him with a smile. “Your job is to do every chore you could ever imagine in this house. In exchange, I allow you to have a roof over your head and food in your belly. I merely happen to do a lot of it for you.”
Travis rolled his eyes and then I did bust out laughing. But I pointedly jerked my head toward the dishwasher and said, “Go on… load it up for me. I’ve got more work to do.”
And the biggest heart melt occurred when he walked not to the dishwasher but to me to kiss my cheek. “You’re the best mom ever. Even if you make me do chores.”
Travis hightails it up the stairs with his shoes in hand and I can’t resist. “And don’t just throw them in there,” I yell up at him.
I hear the distinct thump of them being unceremoniously dumped and shake my head.
I’ll give him a pass on that one because he’s nine years old and the last thing I want to be considered is overbearing. After Mitch died, it was only natural to me to gather Travis in close, but sometimes I went overboard and almost proverbially suffocated him. Not with too much love, born of fear that I could lose him in the blink of an eye the way I lost my husband, but with rules and structure. I thought if I could control my environment, which included keeping Travis in a rigid box, I could keep him alive and safe.
It was only through intense counseling for me individually, Travis individually and then both of us together that I learned to loosen the reins I’d involuntarily contracted inward. It’s a victory for me to be content he put his shoes in the closet, even if they’re thrown in there without thought or care to keep it neat.
It’s also a big deal for me to be able to let him go out and be a nine-year-old without my blanket of protection around him.
God, I know it’s silly to think that if I’m not near him he’s in danger. But for some reason, I went through a period where I thought Mitch dying in a plane crash was somehow my fault. It was fucked-up thinking, but therapy helped so much.
Doesn’t mean that I still don’t have my demons scratching to get out, though.
Travis hurtles back down the stairs. I wince because I realize one of his shoes is untied and I have a fleeting image of him falling on the stairs and breaking his neck, but I stuff it away. He reaches the bottom safely and I must have that look on my face… the one that says I’m in fear mode, even if it’s brief.
It sucks the life out of me when my son sees it… recognizes it… and then throws his arms around my waist. At nine and with his dad’s height, he’s able to lay his head on my shoulder. “I love you, Mom.”
“Love you too, kiddo,” I whisper as I pull him in close. I relish these times, even if it’s my basket full of crazy thinking that prompts it. I’ve been forewarned by Reba that boys turn into monsters when they hit double digits, so I cherish this while it lasts.
“Come on,” Travis says with excitement as he releases me. He rushes to the door and grabs his duffel bag with his hockey gear along with the stick propped against the wall.
He glances over his shoulder at me and the sun pouring in from the side pane of glass makes his blond hair shine. My heart catches because he looks so much like Mitch, right down to the lopsided grin I’ve loved for most of my life. It’s as if I’m staring at his younger doppelgänger, back in the days when we’d go fishing together as little kids.
Travis dashes out the door and the illusion of my dead husband is broken. There’s the inevitable punch of pain as the loss hits me—although it’s not as strong as it once was—and I move on. I have an amazing son and far too much to be grateful for these days to wallow.
On the way to the outdoor ice rink, Travis chatters about the upcoming start of the youth hockey league. He was slated to begin last year but the plane crash derailed everything. We were both so out of it with grief and then all the ways our lives were disrupted financially, the start of the season passed by without me even realizing. When I mentioned it to Travis, he wasn’t interested and my heart bled. He and Mitch had looked forward to Travis playing competitively, especially since the kid had been ice skating since he could walk.
But this year’s different. When registration opened, Travis was beyond giddy about joining. I definitely had to tighten up my budget to afford it because hockey is expensive, but the smile on his face was worth it.
Today’s just a fun day on the ice with some school friends to scrimmage. It was organized by one of the youth hockey moms whose son is in Travis’s third grade class.
As we pull into the parking lot, Travis nearly jumps out of the car before I come to a full stop.
“Whoa there, buddy,” I exclaim and he groans with frustration as he looks out the window.
“Mom… they’re already on the ice.” He looks over his shoulder at me plaintively, poised to throw the door open.
I give him my best mom look. “Give me ten seconds… geez.”
He rolls his eyes, and I remind myself only half an hour ago he spontaneously hugged me with words of love. Reaching out, I ruffle his hair. “I’ll pick you up at Mikey’s house at four p.m. You can use his mom’s phone to call me if you need anything—”
“I won’t need anything.”
“—or want me to pick you up early—”
“I won’t want to be picked up early.”
“—or because you miss me and want to hear the sound of my voice.”
Travis grins. “You’re a drama queen, Mom.”
Laughing, I nod toward the rink. “Get going, brat.”
He leans backward and offers his cheek. I kiss it and then watch with misty eyes as he runs off to join his friends. He doesn’t look back at me once but that’s how it should be… a child filled with such exuberance that he can only see what’s before him and not the pain of the past.
♦
Stone and Harlow are hosting this week’s support get-together. Comprised of loved ones—whether by blood or heart ties—who lost someone in the crash, we’ve unofficially named our group This Pucking Sucks. It was formed by Brienne Norcross, owner of the Pittsburgh Titans, about two months after the disaster. She lost her brother when the plane went down and wasn’t only grieving the loss of the team but a family member, like many of us.