I am ordering take-out tofu noodles while texting a young woman I've never met. We are making an appointment to get together Friday night.
"Is 6:30 too early?"
I'm thinking I could meet her and still have time to make an 8 pm meeting of ex-problem drinkers like me.
"Yes," she texts back. "What's the latest you can do?"
"Oh. Ok. It doesn't matter."
"How about 9?" she suggests.
I'm thinking, won't you be too tired? Are you getting enough rest? But instead, I type,
"Can we make it a little later, 9:15?"
Because I'm also thinking I could still make it to that 8 pm meeting...
We make our plan to meet.
The young woman is the mother of my gestating grandchild. "Bump," I call him.
Bump's dad –Dad? Sperm donor? Or, as one of my friends called a young man in a similarly unplanned scenario, "the perpetrator" – is my son. And my son is in jail. And he got this young woman pregnant immediately before getting himself locked up.
"She's knocked up; he's locked up," my brain chirps at me.
My brain is not ready to address this situation dead-on. It tunes out. It makes pallid jokes. It fuzzes over.
He was sentenced to 3 years. After a routine traffic stop, he was found to be in violation of his probation. If he had met the terms of his probation for 5 years, his record would have been cleared of his felony conviction for burglary of a habitation. But he didn't. He will be a convicted felon forever.
He was on probation after 13 months of incarceration, the last 6 in a locked-down rehab.
When my son was himself a bump, I never dreamed he would grow up to be an addict and convicted felon. That he would run away and drop out and get arrested. That I would learn how to make bail to get him out of jail, then months later, change my locks to keep him out of my house.
He was a beautiful baby. Brimming over with life. Happy. Curious. Very intelligent. He got brown eyes from his daddy and the gene for alcoholism. From me, male-pattern baldness and the gene for alcoholism. A double dose of the demon gene.
I did everything worried parents do. I sent him to rehab. Went to the dreaded "Family Weekend" at the end of rehab. Hired shrinks and lawyers. Bought cars that he wrecked. After two, I vowed to buy no more cars. I paid tuition, hoping this time he would finish a semester. He didn't. As much as it breaks my heart, I will pay no more tuition.
Most of all, I hoped. Then I despaired. Then I hoped again. Then, I was slightly less crushed the next time. Then I hoped, maybe slightly less hopeful. Then, I was disappointed, but not crushed or despairing.
Finally, I grew numb.
I was advised not to expect "immediate, contented sobriety." In fact, stop expecting anything.
This advice came from people whose “kids” were now in their mid-40s, and who had been down this road for 29 years, not the 9 years I had.
In contrast to my near paralysis and zombie-like state, the baby's mama has handled herself and this situation with dignity. She has handled me with caution and respect. She texted me to see if I wanted progress reports on the baby. Did I want to know what the doctor said when she had her visits?
"Of course." I texted back.
"I just didn't know how you felt about the baby." She texted to me.
What difference does it make how I feel about it? It's here. You're having it. We deal with it.
"It's my grandbaby." I text back to her.
