Murphy's Law is a popular adage that states that "things will go wrong in any given situation, if you give them a chance," or more commonly, "whatever can go wrong, will go wrong." I think Murphy is secretly a middle-aged mom of teenagers, functioning on coffee and the contents of whatever can be found at the bottom of her purse that appears palatable.
Events race ahead, the throttle forward at full speed, the boat zipping along a smooth, placid lake, kicking up its mist and waves in its wake. I am not the driver, I didn’t even ask for a ride, yet I’m strapped to the water skis anyway and ripped away from the safety of the shore.
Some days I catch a glimpse of the clear blue sky through the spray, others I can’t do anything but smack the water as I bump along, the skis torn from my feet as my body tumbles and spins far and wide, dangerously close to crashing into the rocks. Some compare life to a roller-coaster, but this metaphor doesn’t seem to apply. At least with a roller-coaster, you know it will come to an end. Being dragged behind the speeding boat, on a lake that stretches to the horizon, there is no end in sight, only the constant feeling of being smacked in the face with each bump, the water seeming more like concrete with every hit.
I try hard to straighten myself, feel the warmth of the sunlight on my face as the rope tugs me along. But each time I appear to have one thing under control, Murphy and her ruthless laws show up to ruin any progress I seem to gain. I am, after all, trying to stand on water, attempting to remain upright on a liquid substance not meant to hold me, but to swallow me.
I have abandoned one of my kids, the boy. I’ve left him to fend for himself, with only a week to go before he begins what should be a significant milestone, his 8th grade year, his last year before high school. This is his year. His chance to finally be top dog, king of the school—only there’s no school to rule. Next year he will be the tiny fish again in the big pond, and at barely over 5 feet with little sign of maturity or puberty catching him, he will be a guppy among sharks. This is his year to shine, the pandemic already stealing from him what it stole from so many graduates last spring--those rites of passage. I feel like he and I are on two different ships, merely passing in the night, never docking at the same port simultaneously.
Meanwhile, the bubble we live in posts “back to school” photos, all of her high school friends ready for their first day of remote classes. From the kitchen table to the back deck to the traditional front porch picture, parents wish their kids well as they start school the same way they ended it last year, but with new plans, new schedules, new teachers, and new expectations. I post mine too, from last week when she needed to pick up her books and get a new ID.
As I walk with her into her program today, I admit we are nowhere near ready for the normalcy that following a bell schedule, even virtually, will bring. I feel like we are back to square one, back to feel helpless, nerves twisting in the pit of my stomach, wondering how on earth we will come through this.
At least she tells me about the cutting this time, admitting what she did when I ask if there are any marks on her body that I need to verify. The upper left thigh this time, using a knife from the neighbor’s kitchen. She was there pet sitting for a few days, letting the dogs out and checking on the cat after each meal and before bedtime. But it is our evening chat session which opens the doors to honesty. To this, and other feelings she is struggling to reconcile.
I ask her why she feels the need to cut. She says she is frustrated and overwhelmed. At that moment when she is not in our safety zone, where the scissors and knives are locked away, the cat spills the entire food container, knocking some into the litter box, and as she is trying to gather it all up, the dogs rush to devour their unfair share. As Murphy predicted, she’s got everything almost all cleaned up when one of the dogs overturns an entire water bowl while the cat--because cats are bastards--dumps the food again.
The entire situation plays out like the current events of her life. The anxiety of starting the school year brings the normal jitter of new teachers and new expectations, but like the cat tipping the container, more keeps getting dumped upon her. Honors geometry, chemistry, world history, Spanish, and English are challenging, her only respite drawing and choir. But attending each of them virtually with a partially live component while doing therapy is next level shit she didn’t sign up for. I tell her that everyone will be lenient, that accommodations are being created, that she will not be responsible for the same expectations as others, but that doesn’t lessen the feelings coursing through her, feelings she has every reason to experience, but needs healthier ways to cope with in the heat of the moment.
So here we are, Monday morning at its finest. The first day of her sophomore year. The eighth day of PHP, the chauffeur routine, the morning drive in the van with an added kick of logging in to school to discover what’s been posted by her teachers. And Murphy, not to be outdone, arrives to take her spot in class, because as I gather my things to begin my usual workday at Starbucks I notice my laptop is nowhere to be found. It’s sitting at home, still on the kitchen counter where I left it.