We've been walking, this summer.
Part of our "schedule"...a required slogging through the pea-soup that is New Jersey's unofficial summer cocktail. The humidity, even in early morning, is thick enough to choke on, as we make our slow and steady way up and down and down and up through the miles.
I changed things up this year...this summer after freshman year. Gone is the home-schooling component. Gone the Mami-led learning and reviewing. Those days on the back lawn, lounging out with textbooks and library books and lemonade have come and passed, and are no more.
This summer the schedule...so to speak...is vastly different. We've factored in for health and wellness...made sure that household-maintenance and self-care are given attention...but the majority of time has been left open-ended. Instead of the rigor of "at this time" and "for this duration", I've let loose the reins and simply provided guidelines for responsible use.
After all, he's 16.
After all...after all...I've done all I could to provide the necessary tools.
The schedule is pinned up on the fridge, just as it always was. Easy access. He passes by it countless times a day...an hour. Time enough to look up and check in and check-off.
Time enough to pursue his own interests.
There is, of course, still guidance from me. Sometimes a nudge or a reminder to look at the clock. Sometimes an exasperated sigh as I see him hunched over his keyboard. All too often a sharper word or two...a harsher prompt to live up to the new responsibility that has been bestowed.
There is, of course, disappointment.
As the hours get wasted.
As the busy-work stretches on ad infinitum.
As the day turns to night and the list of tasks remains half-undone.
I worked it out in advance. Doing the math. Generously so. I tallied up the time it would conceivably take to address the must-dos...the "Drudgery" and "Dedication" listed out above. I added in extra time for mishaps and delays and rounded up to 3 hours.
3 hours.
In a summer day that inevitably starts late and ends later.
3 hours, out of an average 16 hour day.
Just. 3. Hours.
(And that's stretching it. Liberally.)
And even so, those 3 hours of tasks have yet once to be completed in a single day.
Instead, the hours tick by whilst I work. Hours in multiples flickering by on the screen of his computer. Time dying off bit by bit as his distraction and his hyper-focus battle it out for control of his functionality.
Last night I issued a warning. The final one.
I told him that he could prove himself worthy of the responsibility I had given him and complete the schedule as written or he could hand the responsibility back to me, forgoing all rights to his own time and abiding by my hourly requirements instead.
As I sit to write this...it's all still up in the air. Bits and pieces complete, but gaps in the structure nonetheless. And a pitiful refrain of baseless excuses.
Harsh. Aren't I?
Indeed.
Off track, as well...as I tripped down this path of long-drawn, circuitous explanation.
We've been walking.
A beginner's effort at getting back into shape after the forced-lethargy of the school year.
A slow start to recovering the hale-and-hearty selves we once were.
Pacing ourselves and pushing ourselves.
Sweating through the inclines.
Relishing in the all-too-rare and still-hot breezes.
We've been walking and walking and walking.
Each day, a little further.
On roads not made for safe-passage.
Adrenaline coursing through us as we race to get off the main strips while massive trucks rumble by haphazardly, forcing us into the unkempt bracken and sludge where the shoulders have been taken back by Mother Nature.
Our route is hardly scenic. Or level.
Our first mad dash leads to a minor climb, followed by a steady descent...easy enough on the way down, but wrought in the very bowels of hell when, after several miles of similar declines and inclines, we turn round and have to now ascend once more. By the time we make it to the beginning of this final climb, we're already spent. Sweat has beaded and dripped and evaporated, leaving rorschach patterns on our shirts. Our calves are hot to the touch...overextended and burning. Feet? Numb. Breath? Shallow and sticky.
We're borderline hysterical. That "second wind" made up of naught but toxic adrenaline...the burn of it in our veins and muscles.
We...walk. If it can be called that. This mindless lifting of feet...of repetitive motion because there is nothing left to do but breathe and move. We walk...slowly. Each step less than half the distance of our usual stride. Inching along as caterpillars.
The pavement shimmers...those black water mirages springing up just over the horizon line. The soles of our shoes have gone sticky against the burning asphalt. It feels as though each step adheres to the ground.
We become mouth-breathers. Silent and gasping. No breath left for the words and stories we filled the previous miles up with. Just automatons of breath and step.
Cars pass by infrequently as we crest this final hill. A quiet neighborhood of mansions and estates whose occupants are usually elsewhere. Rarely, an air-conditioned drive-by will slow and wave at us as we straighten up, masking our pain from the observation of strangers until the car disappears behind us and we slump back down and slog forward.
That final mile is painful.
It burns and tears and stretches things we forget are part of us.
It wakes up sleeping hurts.
It renders void any agreement we made to challenge one another.
Turns our conversation jewels to rubble.
It makes us angry and spiteful.
Just enough to make it home...up, again, on our driveway...up, one final time, on the stairs...
Air-conditioning and ice-water await.
We flop down on the floor, panting and steaming. Peel off sweat-soaked shoes and socks. Listen to the hammer of our heartbeats in our ears...
...and inevitably...
...giggle uncontrollably at the insanity of it all.
And the next day...the following morning...we do it all over again...but farther.
We walk.
Side by side.
Except on the dangerous strips of road where there's no shoulder to speak of and teenage drivers are spreading their summer-driving wings. There, I force him over and ahead, stepping behind and out a bit so "the car" hits me instead. Motherhood...it's dangerous.
We walk, side by side, and I see when he slows...allowing me to catch up.
His stride is longer than mine now.
A wonder in and of itself.
Where did those little ham hocks go...the ones that bumbled and tumbled and tiptoed?
When did his legs outpace mine?
His hip sits inches above my own and his legs swing out the full length.
On the straight-aways, when the path is clear, I count my steps against his. His four equal my five. His stride 1.25 to my 1.
I watch his feet. The right one jutting outward from an old ankle injury. His gait unchecked despite my nagging reminders to straighten up and straighten out. I see the ankle brace he wears to support it. And I know the custom-fit orthotics are inside his shoes. And all for naught, as he lets his foot turn out anyway.
I watch his feet and marvel at the size. His sneakers like clown shoes up against mine when our stride lines up again. I remember that first pair of shoes that barely filled my palm. White leather. Soft and pliable and utterly useless.
I remember all the sneakers he tore his way through in toddlerhood. Countless trips to the shoe department at Target and hours wasted online searching eBay for the next size up in his beloved Transformers sneakers or snow boots.
I remember when he danced on my toes, arms tight around my thighs.
I remember when I first held him, oohing and aahing over 10 tiny toes.
And now we walk and he holds back, gracious enough to pause for his smaller, older mother to keep up...generous enough to wait while I catch my breath,
Where once I went slowly for him, now he does the same for me.
We walk. He talks. I listen.
And ponder how much slower he'll go because of me as time ticks on...