Traveling Mercies

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An appeal from the author Why you should become a Salon member. By Anne Lamott

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T A B L E_T A L K

Getting straight with those two humans who made you. Discuss your parents in the Mothers Who Think section of Table Talk

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R E C E N T L Y

Blarney for bairns
By Polly Shulman
Forget the leprechauns -- it's irreverence, mythologies and assistant pig-keepers that make Irish stories spellbinding for kids
(03/17/99)

Baby on board
By Katherine Ellison
A seasoned foreign reporter suddenly finds she can't compete on equal terms with men
(03/16/99)

Bring in 'da noise, bring in 'da rat killers
By Jill Wolfson
After preaching respect for animals to my kids, how could I finesse my death wish for the rats in our walls?
(03/15/99)

Kiddie pants or kiddie porn?
By Deborah A. Lott
Nothing comes between kids and their Calvins -- except charges of pedophilia
(03/12/99)

Lost in the supermarket
By Sallie Tisdale
A trip to the store leads to appalling moments in the world of too much and nothing good enough
(03/11/99)

BROWSE THE WORD BY WORD ARCHIVES

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Mamafesto
By Camille Peri
Why it's time
for Mothers Who Think

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Salon Columnists

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IS THAT ALL THERE IS? | PAGE 1, 2
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I almost did say this, in fact. Instead, I said the world's greatest prayer: Help! Quietly, but loud enough so Sam could hear, I said, "Hi, God. Sam and I need a little help right now. We're thanking you in advance, because you are a trustworthy God."

He didn't say anything. He was crying but he did not want to be held, like a baby. So he sat on the bathroom floor several feet away from me, and I handed him the box of Kleenex, and he wiped his nose on the sleeve of his shirt and then shredded a tissue. It took every ounce of my being not to nag him to pick it all up. He shredded another. A snowdrift of Kleenex grew while I thought what to do, and the best I could come up with was to remember the one God thing I'm sure of, which is that God does not offer to take away our suffering or fear but instead to fill it with His or Her presence. So I decided to fill Sam's terror with me.

"What do you believe in?" I asked. "I thought you believed in Jesus."

"I do; I just believe in all the other gods, too."

"Oh," I said nicely. "What other gods?"

"The Greek and Roman gods."

OK, I almost sneered, would you mind naming names -- would you mind telling me some of the names of these other gods you believe in? But I didn't. The snowdrift of Kleenex grew higher.

A woman told me recently that when she could not begin to fathom an afterlife, a pastor told her that the bulb cannot conceive of the flower it will become. It thinks that bulb-hood is all there is, like Peggy Lee sang. Is that ... all there is ... to a bulb?

So I passed this along to Sam. "Let me think about this," he said. His eyes were very red from crying but he scooched over on the floor until he was beside me and then butted his nose against the shoulder of my T-shirt, like a horse that is trying to get you to give it the lump of sugar. I found this very touching, until I realized he was wiping his nose on me.

"Eewwhh," I said, and finally he smiled. This was the first sign of movement in Sam's stuckness, and it gave me the beginnings of hope. "Will you rub my back?" he asked. And I said of course I would, so he stretched out on the bathroom rug, and I began to give him a massage. He was very tight and stiff at first. I hummed a little song and waited for God's help. Then I suddenly remembered the best story I heard last year, and I laughed very quietly. I did not tell it to Sam that night but I will tell it to you:

A friend of mine's best friends have a child with cerebral palsy. He is a very intelligent and cool teenager now; this story is from a few years ago. He had always had major problems with coordination and stamina; one leg tended to drag, and he had the appearance of disjointed gangliness. But when he was 10 years old, he asked his parents for a bicycle.

"Great," they said, and set about planning for a specially equipped bike such as a 10-year-old kid with cerebral palsy might be able to ride without hurting himself.

"No," he said, "I want a bike like all the other 10-year-olds in the neighborhood. I want a regular two-wheeler."

They did their best to talk him out of it, explaining how the kids on regular bikes had started out on trikes, and then moved on to bikes with training wheels and, after a great deal of practice, moved on to a big kid bike with hand brakes, and then gears.

He said he knew that, but he was too big for a trike or even training wheels, and he just wanted a chance to ride a regular two-wheeler.

So after stalling for as long as possible, trying to talk him out of it or distract him, they got him a bike -- with training wheels.

"No!" he said. "You don't understand. I want a bike like the other 10-year-olds. And that means NO TRAINING WHEELS."

So they took the training wheels off, and the boy got on, and then he fell over. He tried to get on his bike and ride it, as he must have seen himself doing in his mind for a long time, and it did not go well at all. It was very painful for his parents and continued to be as day after day he got on his bike and fell over.

But he kept trying.

After a very long time, after months and months and months, he could wobble down the block, but he still often fell over and could not steer worth a shit, and he ended up in the hospital several times. He broke his arm and several other bones and had two concussions, and it was killing his parents with disappointment on his behalf and fear on theirs, that he would hurt or kill himself, land too hard on his head or wobble out into traffic.

But they let him keep trying. This is more inspiring to me than I can say.

"After three years," my friend told me, "he was able to ride pretty steadily around the block. Three years it took him to master what took the other kids two or three weeks. And then," she said, "it took him six more months to learn to let go of one handlebar, so he could wave to you as he peddled past."

So I sat on the bathroom floor, rubbing Sam's shoulders and back, letting him try to find his bearings. And trying to find my own.

I just want to change the nature of life so that my son will never have to be too afraid or disappointed, but will still somehow get to learn life's sweet and terrible lessons anyway. Is that so much to ask? I sighed.

"This is never going to be great," he said.

"No. But you'll have company while you're trying to live with it."

"Is this the best thing you can think of to tell me?"

After a minute I nodded.

"I just really want to be frozen when I die."

I was silent again for a moment, thinking. Then I said, "OK, honey. Now, how about a bubble bath?" Like in the old days, I wanted to add. When you were younger, and death did not loom quite so large and clear. He sniffled, then sat up and wiped his nose on my sleeve again.

"Would you STOP that?" I said, and he laughed. Then he did it again, and I started laughing too. "That's disgusting!" I said, and he laughed even louder.

We did this for a while and I thought, This is the little miracle. This is the alchemy. That my child was stiff and stricken, in dread, and now he is laughing and being disgusting. He can play again, for now. Then he agreed to a bubble bath even though he mostly showers now. It's much more manly. But he let me draw him a bath, and he took off his clothes and climbed in, and as I was headed out the door, he asked me to stay. So I put the lid down on the toilet and flipped through an old magazine while Sam splashed around. He tried unsuccessfully to juggle handfuls of bubbles. He disappeared under the water to practice holding his breath and every so often sneaked a look at me with his long sideways glances, just checking in. And after a while I put the magazine down on my lap, so I could wave.
SALON | March 18, 1999

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