Tag Archives: art

Somehow…while I wasn’t looking…my son grew up.

I guess in my head I knew it would happen. He’s 22, for Pete’s sake. He’s graduating from college this May. Of COURSE he grew up, you’re saying. That’s what they DO.

Except that I wasn’t ready for it. Don’t get me wrong – I am so proud of my son and his accomplishments that I could burst. But while it’s one thing to know in your head that he’s an adult, it’s completely another to stand back at his first gallery showing (his senior exhibition) and watch him actually BE one.



I cried for 3 days four years ago when I took him to Cambridge, MA to live at school. I made sure he called every week and Bill and I arranged for every bus trip home to be sure he’d make it for every break.

Then came the summer he didn’t come home…between junior and senior year. I thought, after 3 years of seeing him sporadically on his breaks, that it would be OK that he wasn’t home for the summer. It was…until it wasn’t anymore. I was home alone (my daughter lives with her dad in the summer), and I didn’t like it. Not one bit. But I made it through and he came home for 2 weeks before he went back for his 4th and final year.

Winter break this year was a joy, even though I had to work through most of it. It was comfortable having him home and knowing he was there with us. Even though he and my daughter picked at each other, his being home made her happy, and it was nice.



There were a few moments that should have hinted to me that this wasn’t my “little boy,” or as he’s referred to affectionately, my “boy-child” anymore. He made some comments that took me aback a bit – responsible comments that took into consideration the needs and wants and situations of others. I don’t know why I was surprised, but I was. His scope had widened. As it should have – but it was neat to see.

He went back to school with the determination to be technology-free for a while. He left his laptop home for his sister to use and only had his phone on over weekends. It worked out because by this point, let’s be serious…he wasn’t calling home every week anyhow. And I was OK with that, knowing he’s a busy student with obligations and friends to keep him occupied.

Those obligations, which mandated a senior portfolio show, kept him from coming home on Spring Break. Yes, of course I missed him, but it would have only been a week and it would have been a challenge to spend time with him. Although again, just knowing he’s in the house is comforting. But I sucked it up and soldiered on with the knowledge that I was going to see him at his senior show. I would finally get to see the work that had been his mistress all this time and spend some time with him in his own environment. I was very much looking forward to it.



We had the privilege of staying at my father’s house in historic Marblehead. All I can say is that it’s beautiful.



There’s nothing about it I don’t like.



There’s nothing about it my kids don’t like, and, well…I wish it were, or had the potential to be, mine someday. It doesn’t, but that’s another story for another time.




SO –

We went to his show, held at a gallery in Cambridge. There were a LOT of people there.



As soon as he saw me, I got one of his signature hugs (you haven’t been hugged until my son hugs you) and an introduction to the people he’d interrupted to hug me. Of course, he constantly forgot his sister, but it was OK – I could tell he was nervous, and after a while he started to remember.



Although there were 3 artists showing, it was clear that this was his show. The majority of the crowd was there to see his work, and he worked the crowds like a professional. He accepted his congratulations, explained his work, and, because he is who he is, worked making photos to document the experience.



He was in his element, and it was stunning to see. Here was this charming, handsome young artist, someone who draws people like (cliché coming) moths to flame, and he was my son. MINE. But in this environment, he wasn’t my “boy-child.” He was an artist. A man. A citizen of the world. In a sense, he didn’t belong to me anymore, he belonged to everyone there, and they deserved him. He deserved them. He deserved all of it; the accolades, the attention, the glory, if you will, of a show that far exceeded my expectations and made me so proud that I could have cried. (I did that later.) It was a bittersweet moment. I realized I'd done what I set out to do, and he doesn't really "need" me anymore. It's a stunning revelation.





So you see, 22 years ago, I gave birth to my first child. And while I wasn’t looking, he grew up.

Somehow…while I wasn’t looking…my son grew up.

I guess in my head I knew it would happen. He’s 22, for Pete’s sake. He’s graduating from college this May. Of COURSE he grew up, you’re saying. That’s what they DO.

Except that I wasn’t ready for it. Don’t get me wrong – I am so proud of my son and his accomplishments that I could burst. But while it’s one thing to know in your head that he’s an adult, it’s completely another to stand back at his first gallery showing (his senior exhibition) and watch him actually BE one.



I cried for 3 days four years ago when I took him to Cambridge, MA to live at school. I made sure he called every week and Bill and I arranged for every bus trip home to be sure he’d make it for every break.

Then came the summer he didn’t come home…between junior and senior year. I thought, after 3 years of seeing him sporadically on his breaks, that it would be OK that he wasn’t home for the summer. It was…until it wasn’t anymore. I was home alone (my daughter lives with her dad in the summer), and I didn’t like it. Not one bit. But I made it through and he came home for 2 weeks before he went back for his 4th and final year.

Winter break this year was a joy, even though I had to work through most of it. It was comfortable having him home and knowing he was there with us. Even though he and my daughter picked at each other, his being home made her happy, and it was nice.



There were a few moments that should have hinted to me that this wasn’t my “little boy,” or as he’s referred to affectionately, my “boy-child” anymore. He made some comments that took me aback a bit – responsible comments that took into consideration the needs and wants and situations of others. I don’t know why I was surprised, but I was. His scope had widened. As it should have – but it was neat to see.

He went back to school with the determination to be technology-free for a while. He left his laptop home for his sister to use and only had his phone on over weekends. It worked out because by this point, let’s be serious…he wasn’t calling home every week anyhow. And I was OK with that, knowing he’s a busy student with obligations and friends to keep him occupied.

Those obligations, which mandated a senior portfolio show, kept him from coming home on Spring Break. Yes, of course I missed him, but it would have only been a week and it would have been a challenge to spend time with him. Although again, just knowing he’s in the house is comforting. But I sucked it up and soldiered on with the knowledge that I was going to see him at his senior show. I would finally get to see the work that had been his mistress all this time and spend some time with him in his own environment. I was very much looking forward to it.



We had the privilege of staying at my father’s house in historic Marblehead. All I can say is that it’s beautiful.



There’s nothing about it I don’t like.



There’s nothing about it my kids don’t like, and, well…I wish it were, or had the potential to be, mine someday. It doesn’t, but that’s another story for another time.




SO –

We went to his show, held at a gallery in Cambridge. There were a LOT of people there.



As soon as he saw me, I got one of his signature hugs (you haven’t been hugged until my son hugs you) and an introduction to the people he’d interrupted to hug me. Of course, he constantly forgot his sister, but it was OK – I could tell he was nervous, and after a while he started to remember.



Although there were 3 artists showing, it was clear that this was his show. The majority of the crowd was there to see his work, and he worked the crowds like a professional. He accepted his congratulations, explained his work, and, because he is who he is, worked making photos to document the experience.



He was in his element, and it was stunning to see. Here was this charming, handsome young artist, someone who draws people like (cliché coming) moths to flame, and he was my son. MINE. But in this environment, he wasn’t my “boy-child.” He was an artist. A man. A citizen of the world. In a sense, he didn’t belong to me anymore, he belonged to everyone there, and they deserved him. He deserved them. He deserved all of it; the accolades, the attention, the glory, if you will, of a show that far exceeded my expectations and made me so proud that I could have cried. (I did that later.) It was a bittersweet moment. I realized I'd done what I set out to do, and he doesn't really "need" me anymore. It's a stunning revelation.





So you see, 22 years ago, I gave birth to my first child. And while I wasn’t looking, he grew up.