…… Invisible.”

“The most interesting things are invisible.” – Samantha Sotto Yambao, Water Moon.

     Somewhat recently I finished Water Moon. This fantasy fiction novel was as visually colorful and eclectic and passionately romantic as it was strange and scattered. I enjoyed it; it was okay; I gave it 3.5 stars. What has been surprising however, is this one particular sentence from the book that continues to revisit my thoughts bringing back memories from childhood as well as connecting me to experiences I am living through right now.  When I first read the sentence I immediately thought about my dad. Since I was his sidekick for most things as a kid, tween and teen it was not uncommon to enter a room with him and hear friends, patients, students, and relatives of my father’s say things like,

“Bumi nice job on …..” 

“Doc, you saved my day when you…..”

“Dr. Kniaz thank you so much for…..”

      I remember being so shocked when I would hear some of these comments and gratitudes because he rarely or never told me about the things he did during the day, and once when I asked him why I did not know about these things he simply stated,

“I just do it, Jess; no need to talk about it.” Many nights he would come home from work with baked treats and little gifts and when I asked why people gave him these things he said because it is their way of saying thank you; which of course then prompted me to ask,

“Thank you for what?” and he would just wave his hand gently in the air as if waving a bug away and say, 

“Feh.”

     Invisibility and humility. 

      As a young kid falling asleep for me was like a limber, rehearsed gymnast glued to a bench – Gaah!! Nope. Nada. Forget it! E.T., Freddy, Gremlins, Ghosts, Showtime, HBO, Cinemax, and no parent controls INCLUDING an openly On The Market, dating single father –  are you KIDDING ME??!!!

My dad looked very much like, but was a kinder, more tender, responsible, and less cheaty version of Don Draper… He did like his cocktails, might have thrown his garbage out of the car window in 1962, he was charming as hell, brilliant as all get out, and left me alone a lot with the remote. Now as for me, I was a kinder, more tender, responsible, and less bitchy, although extremely exhausting, version of Sally Draper. I got the remote with no parental controls, made empty promises of goodness and Don/dad got outta the house. He always came back before midnight and I somehow always remembered to turn the channel back to Public Television before pressing the power button.

Intermittent Invisible paternity, I can not watch scary movies to this day, but these were some of my favorite nights. 

     Finally and ohhhhh soooooo long ago, when our three kids were small and bedtime would finally arrive, my husband and I would crawl our sleep deprived bodies and brains up the stairs to baths, toothbrushes, and pajamas; good night Percy, goodnight mice and mittens and moons, good night caterpillar, and to the couch we would desperately plop intertwining feet, calves and blankets until drool would hit the floor and/or the top of our dog’s head. After some good ol’ couch sleep we would battle the ether of fatigue and always check on the kids in their beds before collapsing into our own. During one particular evening and bunk check we discovered two sleeping heads instead of three. We checked under covers, in corners, in closets, and began ticking off the checklist of potential hiding spots until I made it to the third basement step when I saw a gentle bounce of light on the wall from a headlamp wrapped around a teeny tiny six year old head. My initial instinct and exhausted impulse was to yell STOP and scoop our youngest kid into my arms and tuck him back into a duck-taped comforter – but I didn’t. I couldn’t do anything but watch what was unfolding in front of me in the shadowy, dimly lit darkness. On a table, like a sea with a sliver of silver moonlight, were all the innards of one of those spinner toys that were either the nightmare or miracle for every kindergarten teacher across America! Hovering above this dismantled, scattered spinner explosion was my son’s head diligently focused on correct lighting and the tip of his tongue was dangling out of the left corner of his mouth like Calvin when he and Hobbs were in cahoots planning world domination; pure concentration. 

     I watched in silence as each silver piece by silver piece found its way, with the help of a dancing, bobbing spotlight, back into its rotating trifecta. I gave my husband the sign that all was okay and tiptoed back upstairs and pretended to be asleep as we waited for our engineer to hit the hay.

Child under the guise of Invisibility; spinner survived.

     Last week we dropped our youngest and last kid off at college. Last night before I went to bed I wanted to text him. 

But I didn’t.

This morning when I woke up I wanted to call him and see if he was safe, happy, lonely, did he meet anyone new, when was the last time he ate, is his room too hot, should I get Life360? 

But I didn’t.

Did our middle child get fire extinguishers for his slanted, hillside embedded, vertigo inducing, charming (fine –  I’ll throw a charming in there!) new house?!! 

Where is our oldest and firstborn?!! Oh right, she is local and in town until next week and actually downstairs at the moment – jeez.

Do they know I love them if I am not unrolling balled up socks tucked deeply into cushion crevices? 

Invisible.

     Things are going to happen, things should happen when we are not there. That is when life happens. 

     What I can not see, what I can not hear, what I can not touch or talk to is maybe just not always my business.

     Soon, when I turn out the lights before going to bed, I will walk into three empty bedrooms but I will trust, and I will know that what I can not see is many times the most hilarious, naughty,  beautiful, and interesting.