I used to like roller coasters.
Ups and downs, twists and turns, even upside downs.
And I’d often do the exit runaround to get back on and ride again, from a different seat -to get another perspective, a different experience.
It was all fun.
Because the roller coaster on which I’m now stuck is way bumpier than any I experienced as a kid. It’s a white-knuckled ride with metal-screeching hairpin turns, plummeting downward spirals, and careening ricochets of off rickety lattice work of questionable stability.
And its driver isn’t a qualified computer with a vacant-stare carnival worker at the controls. Rather, at the helm is a sleepy-eyed teen, without benefit of technology or any industrial safety standards. Captained by the horrors of hormonal flux and teen angst, this ride is unlike any other. Although perhaps universally experienced, it’s still unfamiliar to me; I’m not sure where and when the curves come, and I can’t see what’s around the next corner. Space Mountain meets Hotel California, where blindness rules and you can check out any time you like, but you can’t get off the damn ride.
The only sure thing about my ride is the inconsistency of its terrain. Conditions change not merely day-to-day, but hour-to-hour, minute-by-minute. And although I know I’m not alone, it often feels as if I’m riding solo on the front car, headed for a wall.
The thing is I always used to believe that the highs were worth the lows –it’s why we ride in the first place. A bit of anticipation, a flood of excitement, and then a gentle pull into a sunlit station. Now, I’m looking at the kiddie rides with longing. And at those sad and staid skyview gondolas that take in the whole park with a bird’s eye view –from a safe distance. What’s wrong with getting the story from afar?
Lots, I know.
But still, it would be nice to occasionally forgo the up-close-and-personal viewpoint.
But of course, it is my fault.
It was my choice to hop on the ride, after all. Not just by having kids, but also by forging a relationship that was different from the one my parents had with me. Honesty, involvement. Not answering their questions with because I said so.
What was I thinking?
Because I said so seems a perfectly acceptable answer to me now. Seriously, it’s not like he answers my questions. Monosyllabic murmurings and grunts are more the norm. This from the kid who came wired for sound straight from the womb. Non-stop chatter was the white noise of my life from our earliest engagement. Now, I’d welcome that staticky repetition of mom, mom, mom, as he tried to get my attention for answer to the query of the moment or to include me in the latest of his world discoveries. Back then, it was as if my input was vital fuel for the exploding synapses of his brain. Now, the less input from me, the better.
This too shall pass.
If one more person offers up that sage bit of fortune cookie wisdom -aargh!
Because just as it does seem ready to pass, the ride hits its skittering stride and plummets to a new depth. And at the next curve, I wonder -is this where we skid entirely off track?
And don’t tell me that I’m going to look back at these days with some sort of revisionist reminiscing that turns all the turmoil into fond memory.
More likely, I’ll look back and wonder how the hell did I survive the ride at all??