Mowgli stands outside my shed at eye level, I standing in the doorway. For once, I am not looking at the bottom of his chin as he looks over me or his back as he walks away. His fine features are as beautiful as ever. The scowl is replaced with, not eagerness, but a desire to please. “Happy birthday, Grandma.” Tidings of great joy.
“Thank you, Favorite One.” (All my grandkids are Favorite One). “On Sunday, we will go out to dinner to celebrate.” Mowgli agrees.
That was Friday. By Sunday, I had celebrated my birthday several times with friends and family with one event yet to come. Aware that Mowgli is uncomfortable eating out in crowds, I offered an out as he and ED worked on a school project. “We can just pick up some ice cream on our way home from the afternoon event.”
“But Grandma, it’s your birthday. Let’s go out.” (He offered to go out?)
We met for dinner, expecting Mowgli to have reached the ceiling of amiability. Instead, he looked directly at me and asked what I wanted for an appetizer.
“Oh, I don’t know. What do you like?”
“Grandma, it’s your birthday. You choose.”
His phone stored in his pocket, Mowgli teased, answered questions, offered conversation, his voice clear. He recounted his afternoon, answering the door (he answered the door?), greeted by two young girls hawking handmade dog toys, his $3 purchase probably making their day, delighting Luna the dog, and astonishing all of us.
The food was tasty, no doubt enhanced by the unexpectedly pleasant repartee. The birthday dessert—bread pudding arriving at the table with a single candle—prompted Mowgli to comment on its sweetness and press me for my birthday wish. “World peace.” Mowgli guffawed.
Once home, Mowgli allowed a light hug in thanks for the perfect birthday gift: Mowgli.
A few days later I strolled by his room, his door open (his door open?) and noticed a clear path to the desk (there’s a floor?). The open curtain (open curtain?) recalled the day when C-boy started emersion from his adolescent cocoon. Expecting to find the television as the source of light reflected beneath his door, I entered the room and was blinded by sunshine, the curtains drawn for the first time in years. Now Mowgli’s curtain is open as if he is ready to face the world.
Mowgli has been working part-time on Saturdays, assisting in window-cleaning. A day of labor tires him but he is buoyed by the cash in his pocket. He is learning the joy of being valued by someone outside the family, someone who isn’t obligated to love him or make concessions. Someone who thinks his hard work is worth that valued capitalism commodity: cash. It isn’t hard to understand how that spills over into other parts of life.
Then here comes Blue Boy, home from college to head to Chicago with the family for the Christmas holidays. He greets me with a big smile and hug (hug?). The blue/pink/purple hair is replaced by dark curls extending to his collar, the thick texture inherited from the Pfeiff side of the family. He looks like a college student. The two boys begin the brotherly banter accented with physical blows. Yes, they are boys.
Signs of maturity: awareness of how the world works, understanding that sometimes one must put aside difficult emotions to navigate society. My own children developed those skills in a relatively straight line. Blue Boy is traversing the road with relative ease thanks to his mother. Mowgli’s line twists and turns and reverses and spins. But when it leaps forward, I float on the gentle current, hear the diminishing sound of rapids behind us knowing there are rapids ahead. But for now, enjoy the ride.
The following day I asked Mowgli how he had done on his school project. “I got a 96.” I lay my head back on the raft, close my eyes and listen as the water gurgles gently underneath. The raft spins gently, rocking me to peace. This is Now.
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