Rite of Passage
My son, 17, turns 18 this Sunday. He skipped school today. I found him swinging in the hammock, his face as gray as the June Gloom filling our sky.
"Mom, I haven't done anything with my life."
He didn't look at me, spoke to the backyard, and I remembered being young and serious and dramatic. I started reciting a list of all the ways he makes my life better, but I caught myself, stopped. Almost 18-year-olds don't need a litany of a mom's memories. I rubbed his hair and stepped back into the house.
It's tough being 17. It's tough being 18. I didn't want to tell my boy that it's tough being 39, too, tough in well-worn ways. I poured a tall glass of water and sat at the kitchen table to flip through today's newspaper. Mudslide. Spelling Bee champion. Deep Throat. What a world, I thought. I took a sip of water. I turned the page. An article caught my eye. Rock and Roll Marathon this Sunday. Hmmmmmm.
A half hour later my son and I hugged. We will run and walk 26.2 miles through San Diego together this Sunday morning to celebrate his rite of passage. He will start as my young boy and cross the finish line a grown man, and along the way, at every mile, a rock and roll band will serenade us. I'm not hawking Avon this race. I'm not going to wear my crazy kilt or convince fellow runners to try some Skin So Soft. I'm just going to run with my boy. Maybe we'll talk about life.
10:11:13 AM 
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