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Departure and Attention
Jun. 22nd, 2006 07:20 amA flurry of car-related hysteria, a barbecue at the Laughtons, a Boyz Nite Out (Nacho Libre), a farewell dinner at California Pizza – and then, abruptly, Max is gone.
I'll miss him terribly.
A month is more than a visit. A month is living with someone. I doubt that we'll ever live together again except maybe in my dotage if he's rich enough to own a house with an in-law apartment.
So this really was goodbye.
I was too busy yesterday to register it. The usual morning chores to do – dishes, laundry, dogs to the beach, breakfast for Robin, the dogs and the cat – then Max and I rendezvoused at CostCo where we were told that tires for the van would have to special ordered.
"So how safe are the tires that are on it now?" I asked the manager.
I find it amazing that someone can be a tire expert! That someone can show excitement and enthusiasm discussing tires! But this guy did. "They're good for another thousand miles if you don't run the van over eighty."
Deep Springs and back is a six hundred mile trip.
Off to the Little Store. Lackluster Saturday, strong Sunday. Max dropped in for a final good-bye; I gave him an apron and the dismembered Homer Simpson head: "Mount it on the wall or something. Like a deer head!"
I sold hot sauce. Lots of hot sauce. Barbecue sauce too. Also politically incorrect teeshirts and salt and pepper shakers.
Then it was time to grab Robin and head off to Dr. H. We had a Sunday appointment because Dr. H. had actually forgotten our Thursday appointment. Dr. H was terribly contrite, called me three times, sent Robin a postcard, slashed the price of our next appointment – but still, forgetting an appointment with a child who presumably has abandonment issues already?
That's actually something I could see Robin himself doing twenty years from now. They're a lot alike, Dr. H and Robin.
I sat in the car reading a March 2005 issue of PEOPLE Magazine. Jennifer Aniston painting the town with Vince Vaughn. Didn't Vince Vaughn used to look like Frank Sinatra? And why is Jennifer Aniston a movie star anyway, she's got these little beady eyes and you just know she had electrolysis on a mustache.
"Okay, now your mother and I need to talk about some grown-up things," Dr. H told Robin when I went back inside. "Don't worry – we're not talking about you."
But of course, we were talking about him.
"Even before his father and I separated, I've had some concerns that Robin's degree of disorganization might be symptomatic of some underlying problem, possibly an attention deficit disorder or a hyperactivity disorder," I said.
Dr. H. nodded noncommittally.
"I mean he's a brilliant kid – I often think he's the smartest one of a really smart family. But he's incredibly disorganized, and he's absolutely incapable of focusing on anything for longer than one second."
Dr. H. played with his fingers. Here's the church, here's the steeple. Look inside, see all the people.
"I'd like to have him tested."
"Of course a major stressor like the one he's just been through could precipitate these kinds of behavioral changes," Dr. H. said. He looked as though he was just dying to fold his long, skinny legs up under him in his chair. "I'd want to speak to his teachers."
"Of course."
"He doesn't have ADHD. I'm sure of that."
"Okay."
"I have ADD," he said.
No-ooo!
"And in my opinion, you are not off track in your observations," he added softly.
On the ride home, Robin babbled excitedly about his new ambition – medical school!
"I asked Dr. H how much he makes a session. Two hundred fifty dollars! For like an hour! That's two thousand dollars a day! That's like what we make in a week at the store, right?"
"If we're lucky," I said.
"But he said doctors make even more. So I think I'm going to go to medical school."
"A laudable ambition," I said.
"I'll buy my first house for thirty thousand dollars and then maybe I'll rent it out and get a car and retire when I'm fifty and go back and live in it –"
"Hey, what about me?" I asked. "Do I get to live in your basement?"
"No offense, Mom, but when I'm fifty, you'll be dead."
Or maybe even sooner, I thought. Why wait?
"Dr. H digs you, Mom," said Robin. "He keeps asking me all sorts of questions about you."
Ah, transference. Robin is already grooming Dr. H. to be his new Dad.
That's a good sign. I guess.
I'll miss him terribly.
A month is more than a visit. A month is living with someone. I doubt that we'll ever live together again except maybe in my dotage if he's rich enough to own a house with an in-law apartment.
So this really was goodbye.
I was too busy yesterday to register it. The usual morning chores to do – dishes, laundry, dogs to the beach, breakfast for Robin, the dogs and the cat – then Max and I rendezvoused at CostCo where we were told that tires for the van would have to special ordered.
"So how safe are the tires that are on it now?" I asked the manager.
I find it amazing that someone can be a tire expert! That someone can show excitement and enthusiasm discussing tires! But this guy did. "They're good for another thousand miles if you don't run the van over eighty."
Deep Springs and back is a six hundred mile trip.
Off to the Little Store. Lackluster Saturday, strong Sunday. Max dropped in for a final good-bye; I gave him an apron and the dismembered Homer Simpson head: "Mount it on the wall or something. Like a deer head!"
I sold hot sauce. Lots of hot sauce. Barbecue sauce too. Also politically incorrect teeshirts and salt and pepper shakers.
Then it was time to grab Robin and head off to Dr. H. We had a Sunday appointment because Dr. H. had actually forgotten our Thursday appointment. Dr. H was terribly contrite, called me three times, sent Robin a postcard, slashed the price of our next appointment – but still, forgetting an appointment with a child who presumably has abandonment issues already?
That's actually something I could see Robin himself doing twenty years from now. They're a lot alike, Dr. H and Robin.
I sat in the car reading a March 2005 issue of PEOPLE Magazine. Jennifer Aniston painting the town with Vince Vaughn. Didn't Vince Vaughn used to look like Frank Sinatra? And why is Jennifer Aniston a movie star anyway, she's got these little beady eyes and you just know she had electrolysis on a mustache.
"Okay, now your mother and I need to talk about some grown-up things," Dr. H told Robin when I went back inside. "Don't worry – we're not talking about you."
But of course, we were talking about him.
"Even before his father and I separated, I've had some concerns that Robin's degree of disorganization might be symptomatic of some underlying problem, possibly an attention deficit disorder or a hyperactivity disorder," I said.
Dr. H. nodded noncommittally.
"I mean he's a brilliant kid – I often think he's the smartest one of a really smart family. But he's incredibly disorganized, and he's absolutely incapable of focusing on anything for longer than one second."
Dr. H. played with his fingers. Here's the church, here's the steeple. Look inside, see all the people.
"I'd like to have him tested."
"Of course a major stressor like the one he's just been through could precipitate these kinds of behavioral changes," Dr. H. said. He looked as though he was just dying to fold his long, skinny legs up under him in his chair. "I'd want to speak to his teachers."
"Of course."
"He doesn't have ADHD. I'm sure of that."
"Okay."
"I have ADD," he said.
No-ooo!
"And in my opinion, you are not off track in your observations," he added softly.
On the ride home, Robin babbled excitedly about his new ambition – medical school!
"I asked Dr. H how much he makes a session. Two hundred fifty dollars! For like an hour! That's two thousand dollars a day! That's like what we make in a week at the store, right?"
"If we're lucky," I said.
"But he said doctors make even more. So I think I'm going to go to medical school."
"A laudable ambition," I said.
"I'll buy my first house for thirty thousand dollars and then maybe I'll rent it out and get a car and retire when I'm fifty and go back and live in it –"
"Hey, what about me?" I asked. "Do I get to live in your basement?"
"No offense, Mom, but when I'm fifty, you'll be dead."
Or maybe even sooner, I thought. Why wait?
"Dr. H digs you, Mom," said Robin. "He keeps asking me all sorts of questions about you."
Ah, transference. Robin is already grooming Dr. H. to be his new Dad.
That's a good sign. I guess.
