I
have two sons. One just sat in his last college class today; he graduates in a
few weeks. He has something like 198 credit hours, having needed 128 or so to
graduate. The extra credits came from AP courses and the requirements of his chosen areas of study; he had to stay in school for four years to complete all the
courses for his majors (and minor). So, one about to graduate college. Very proud parents.
Second son is a college
freshman. Financial aid deadlines are nigh, and I required access to his student/institutional account. His log-in information, which I can never
remember and always neglect to write down somewhere sensible, is a random jumble of
letters and punctuation.
Flashback to 1989 and 1992,
respectively. Both my sons were delivered via Cesarean section: scooped out of
the czarina’s swollen belly, cleaned up, and delivered to the czar’s expectant
arms.
Both sons were hyperalert upon
arrival. Heads up, eyes focused, looking around, taking it in. I can brag a
little; both these kids were smart newborns.
Nothing got past them. In the case of one of them, I think more than a little
knowledge came from somewhere else.
Immediately in their father’s
cradle, both boys began to hear the murmur of one of their dad’s favorite
pieces of writing, T. S. Eliot’s “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.” Too
many great lines to mention. But upon leaving the womb, the first words they heard
other than from medical professionals were as follows:
Let us go then, you and
I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question . . .
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question . . .
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.
I ask my
son today for his login information so I can access the financial aid
application.
He writes, “An easy way to
remember it: the first letters of Let us go then, you and I.
I suppose there’s something to be said for being in on the ground floor.
This, folks, is the fun of
parenthood—not the inevitably negative and crazy-making buttons that all parents put on
their children. Neuroses, personality quirks . . . all that stuff comes with
the territory, even if they manifest in entirely different ways than in the
parents’ generation.
But my son’s explanation retrospectively gave
a day of thinking about financial aid and taxes a glow, and
that happens—well—never.
I love my children. Very proud
of both of them. I’m way behind in work and dealing with long-forestalled
issues, but what fine moments and ultimately a red-letter day.
How often do you read that on
this blog?
