Covert Mom: Afternoons and Coffeespoons

By Mariah Mottley

A few days ago I was chatting with my husband about one of his colleagues at Cornell when my son interrupted us.
“You’re a senior lecturer,” he chortled, pointing at me.

Sean broke up laughing. Winnie crossed his arms, validated. He is seven, but he looks 10, and doesn’t like to follow directions. He hears more lectures than an undergraduate.

Tonight he and I are taking his sisters to the karate class I’d hoped he would espouse. He needs a job; a calling. A way to focus his workaholic energy. I had hoped that a martial art would help him sort himself out. Instead, his sisters got really into it, and he refused, point blank, to continue. Now, he rollerblades and I jog while they are in class.

I was wiggling into my running shorts when he asked for help getting his Gumby doll out from under his mattress. I obliged, lifting it from the far edge, glad no one could see my shorts riding up as I leaned over. Winnie shimmied underneath.

“Don’t drop that on me,” he ordered.
“I won’t,” I grunted, still thinking about the karate.
“You know, “ I added, “you can’t spend your life not showing up for challenges. That’s not how it works. At some point, you’re going back to karate, and you’ll stay until you earn I don’t know, some color belt. Your father and I expect you to work hard at whatever you do, like we do. Your job is” – I took a breath – “ to participate. In life.”

I let it out, still holding the mattress.
“Almost there,” his body totally under the bed now, “Don’t drop it!”
“I’m not gonna,” I told him, wishing I could explain how keeping his body safe was scrawled in my neural pathways in a loud, bright graffiti. Dude was 10 pounds when he was born, and I handled that. I would hold the mattress all day if he needed me to.
“Can you see him yet?” I asked, impatient.
“Yeah,” he replied, and tugged at the bed frame. “I’m coming out. Don’t let go.”
“I’m not gonna.”

I was irritated. He never listens. That’s why I’m such a senior lecturer.
He was out from under the bed now, brandishing Gumby and making blasting noises.
“Let’s go,” I said, straightening up and tugging at my shorts. “Your sisters need to be at class.”

We pulled up in the driveway of the karate school; the girls leapt out of the car, belts tied neatly. I headed down the hot asphalt, Winnie rolling just ahead of me. Daylilies scrabbled out of the drainage ditch; a chestnut quarter horse grazed, everything lush and leafy; the air thick. This is the real deal. Summer.
The sun was hot on my face, salt starting to drip into my eyes. But I didn’t mind sweating. November is just around the corner from July, waiting to knock the leaves off the trees, force me to find all my socks. But not yet.

Winnie was even taller on his skates, his movements smooth from repetition, the summer sun stretching his shadow far ahead of his body. He ‘blades a lot. He has always needed to move, to crash into the boundaries of things, my ribs when he was in utero, now, his sisters, the screen door, the sofa. I lengthened my stride and cuffed him on the helmet.
“Glad you’re here with me,” I said.

He nodded, eyes ahead. He is big for his age, like a large breed puppy. It is easy to forget how young he is. Lectures aside, we have always been easy together. The road sank down in front of us, a stop sign at the bottom. Winnie made a ‘T’ with his feet and came to a halt.
“I think I should stop. That hill is too big.”

I started to say something about quitting karate and not brushing your teeth and showing up for your life when I realized he had never said that before. Ever. I think I should stop. Not once. I looked at the hill in front of us critically.
“Good call,” I admitted.

It was a mile back to the car, which would be a rugged time if he was skating and bleeding from two skinned knees. While he waited, I ran down the hill and back up, processing this new scenario. It was good. On the way back, we played shadow tag, our elongated forms bonking heads and high-fiving one another.

There will be time, I reminded myself. There will be time for him.

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Originally from Manhattan, Mariah was educated in Massachusetts, Montana and Texas, often by failure. She lives with her husband and three children in the Finger Lakes region of upstate New York. Mariah can be reached at mariah@mariahmottley.com.