No Time for Dreams

No Time for Dreams
By Barbara Feder Mindel

Today, for once, I am not late.

For my effort, my thirty-two-year-old son needles me affectionately as he opens the door to his home. "Yo, Mom, fourteen minutes early!"

I smile, try to seem calm, but I'm antsy. I've been playing catch-up since my life began itself over, this time as a single mom. Today, I'm determined to get things right from the start.

Spying Mike's car keys, jacket and the wrapped gifts sitting on the counter, I think we're ready to leave. But no, my bachelor son is making small talk. I shift my weight, put my present on the counter and try to look attentive, but finally blurt out, "Honey, let's go! They're expecting us soon. We can chat in the car."

This is important. Christmas dinner at Sarah's house. First meeting with the girlfriend's parents.

"All right," Mike says, catching on to my mood. "Just let me do something upstairs." Over his shoulder he says, "Relax, Mom, it's going to be a great day."

Somewhat calmed by his good humor, I unbutton my coat and wait, fidgeting with the clippings and photos Mike has tacked to his refrigerator. Photos of his friends . . . his latest interests . . .

My firstborn has turned into a loving, well-adjusted man, I realize - marveling that he even survived his adolescence, with a crumbling marriage as a backdrop and a controlling father for an antagonist. I remember that critical night (was he just sixteen?!) when he cornered me in the kitchen and lectured me: "Mom, you deserve better than this."

At the time, I wasn't sure if it was a plea for my liberation or his.

Did I do right by him? I think so, but did he come through unscathed? After the divorce it was a struggle to raise Mike's teen brothers and try to help him heal, too, into a whole adult. We are close now, maybe because he admired my courage. Or perhaps he respects the life I've carved for myself that makes no demands on his.

Mike's step on the stairs interrupts my reverie. He plants a kiss on my cheek and presents me with an unwrapped box. I'm confused; we already exchanged presents on Chanukah.

The box is filled with travel brochures for the Hawaiian Islands, and I finger them enviously. I almost made it to the islands three years ago, but my mother became ill at the eleventh hour, and I had to cancel my flight.

Here's my son looking out for me again. Still trying to renew my dreams.

"These are great, Honey," I say, but inside I know I have no room for dreams. With my parents to care for, so many expenses, I can't even think about a vacation right now. And right now it's time to meet our dinner obligations.

"I can't wait to read these at my leisure," I hint, none too subtly, and slip the cover back on the box. Mike stops me.

"Have a look now," he insists.

"We're going to be late, Mike," I almost plead.

"I'm not going anywhere until you look these over," he says quietly.

I work through the brochures and find an envelope at the bottom of the stack.

"What's this?"

My son just shrugs.

I gasp as I open the envelope to find a gift certificate for an open-ended, pre-paid, round-trip airline ticket to Oahu.

"I don't believe this!" I breathe out. "You're giving me this? Honey, I can't accept this from you."

Mike beams. "What do you mean, you can't accept this from me?" he laughs.

"Mike," my voice down to a whisper, "you work too hard for your money."

He's whispering now, too. "Mom, who deserves it more than you?"

Suddenly, I know: He really is okay.

Suddenly, I don't feel so lost for time.


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My firstborn has turned into a loving, well-adjusted man, I realize - marveling that he even survived his adolescence, with a crumbling marriage as a backdrop and a controlling father for an antagonist.
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Easy and fluent, a model essay by a pro writer

Good article, which could teach young generation to appreciate their parents' effort raising them.