7 days and counting

Thomas Moore, in his book "Dark Nights of the Soul", defines "sacrifice" means "to make sacred". When you make a sacrifice, according to Moore, you don't just give something up, you acknowledge a realm greater than yourself.

I read this during early morning hours before my kids were awake. It seemed a nice sentiment, something I should tuck away and remind my students in the nurturing parenting class to remember.

As I finish preparing for my next class, my son walked into my office, sighing and skulking in the way he has acquired these last few days.

"Have you had breakfast?" he asks. I am suddenly brought to full attention. know this is a set up.

"Yes" I say, and my eyes dart to the clock. It reads 11:43 am. I have had breakfast hours ago.

"What did you have?" he asked. At this question, my pocketbook started to rumble. It knows it will soon be empty. In fact, just the mere approach of my son causes my wallet to begin rising from my purse.

People often ask me about how I learned to be such a good negotiator in my sales career. The answer stands before me, sulking, in an Aeropostle T-Shirt.

"I had waffles. " I replied. I watched him. His recent string of performances are better than most and I see a lot of acting. Between the sales calls that I do ("my husband won't let me buy that...) and the movies that I watch, I say I estimate I see more bad acting in a week than a Hollywood casting agent.

"I have had waffles for 4 days straight." He hangs his head lower, his eyes take on that glazed look that comes from too many Krispy Kreme donuts or methamphetimines which I think are the same thing.

"I'm dying for cereal." he moans, grabbing his stomach. I've seen less misery on Jerry Lewis telethons.

"We don't have cereal?" I asked while silencing my ever-ringing cell phone. "I thought we had some Special K".

With this question, I get the same look I get when I've asked, "Is a field goal in football worth 2 or 6 points?" It clearly says in ways that only a teenager can communicate that they now understand that their parents is truly not of this world. They are, in fact, orphans who must endure living with mere humans while on this planet.

"I don't consider Special K a cereal." he sniffed.

"Hmmmm, I do." I silence d my phone again, kicked my purse further under my desk. Something about his sad shape, his hanging head I began to feel compassion. "I can make some tuna fish sandwiches." I replied brightly.

With another heavy sigh, a roll of his head, he shufflled off.

I wondered if in 7 days, when Nathan is tucked away in some college dorm and eating until his arteries pop open if I will regret this conversation.

In the past few weeks, he has turned 18 and now he announces his schedule to his father and I. We will be sitting innocently at the dinner table and he will turn with the chicken still in his mouth and say, "My friends and I are going to the drive-in and we won't be home until, oh say, 3 a.m."

His father will stare into his plate, looking dazed and confused which is the signal that says, "He's your son, deal with him." I've seen Dan stand between fighting refs at a basketball game. I've seen him duck a punch from a wild coach. But around his son lately he begins to get fidgeting and nervous like a kid on a first date. When he's not staring into space, he is working on the blueprints for what the upstairs will look like once next week is here.

I don't blame him. I and my friends, those of which I've served on committees, watched countless band, soccer performances walk around town these days without our kids in tow looking like we've survived a bad molar implant or watched too many episodes of "Survivor".

"I just don't know him anymore. " my friend recently said over salads at Wendy's. "He's like he's turning into this person I never knew. His room is a mess. He never is home. He spends all his time with friends and just this past week quit his job so he could have more time to himself before he starts the next phase of his life."

I thought she was talking about her husband, but it was her son, who is also destined for his new collge next week, in which she was referring.

"Do you know where your wallet is?" I asked her, whispering.

She teared up. "Haven't seen it for weeks".

I remembered recently a scene out of my life when Dan and I were driving to New Jersey to start our new life with new jobs. I remembered his mother standing in the driveway and tearing up. This was uncharacteristic for her and she apolgized profusely. After all, she survived the depression on a farm in Oklahoma and greeted every morning with a "Good Morning" that would ring off the walls and make the most cynical morning person (me) look forward to another day in OK. When she cried at this emotional moment, I was touched and thought, "It must be so hard to say good-bye to your son."

I wonder now if she was indeed sad at our departure. Maybe she was gleefully remembered the $20 bucks that was still in her wallet that didn't make it into Dan's hand. And Dan's dad? Where was he during this family moment?

I think he was knocking out the walls between his kids rooms.