The Analyst's Couch

Yesterday I saw a bumper sticker that said: "Embarassing my children: a full-time job." I like the sentiment expressed by that bumper sticker. But my motto is this: "I have to give my son something to talk about when he is on the analyst's couch."

When the elusive offspring was 16 or 17, he said to me: "Mom, I want to dye my hair blue." "Sure!" I said, "where can we get the dye?" We bought bought the dye and his girlfriend came over and we made an afternoon of it. When we were finished, his normally ginger hair was the most lovely midnight blue. I loved it! My favorite husband, of course, hated it. As I watched EO drive away with his girlfriend, it suddenly hit me that I'd blown it. If my son was making a rebellious statement, a bid for teenage freedom, I did exactly the wrong thing. I should have said: "No, don't do it. I forbid it," or something more parental than "Yes, let's!" That way, when he's an adult and needs to blame his parents for his woes, he could tell the analyst: "My mother wouldn't let me dye my hair blue." But no, I wasn't thinking quite correctly. Instead, I found myself taking photos of my blue-haired son and keeping them in my office to amuse and shock colleagues (the military types were especially distressed by the idea of a blue-haired son). Two weeks later, the hair was turning a sickly green, and we refreshed the dye. Then two weeks after that, when it started looking yukky again, I asked EO if he wanted to do it again. "Naw, this is too much work. I'm going to let it go back." For which I really was grateful. It took a while to get the blue out of the bathtub, and I still have a formerly cream-colored towel that is now splotchy blue (not my doing) and can't be left out when we have company.

So, on our first night in Scotland last month, my son says: "Well, I guess it's now or never," and he takes off his leather motorcycle jacket, at which point I immediately knew where this was going. "Please don't let it say Mom." He lifts his sleeve and reveals what is actually a very nicely done tattoo:

"SPQR" being the initials for ... if my Latin serves me and if I translate correctly ... the Senate of the People of Rome. He said he got it as a reminder of the effects of hubris. He said the great nation of Rome fell because of hubris, and the United States is often compared to Rome (even taking the eagle for its symbol, like Rome). I tried to be really disappointed in this new evidence of EO's independence, but I'm afraid my open fascination with the artwork betrayed me. Maybe it's because I was suddenly reminded of my own flirtation with the idea (when I was 20) of having a tiny rose tattooed on my ankle...that fantasy faded faster than a henna tattoo. I have no tattoos. As for the EO's tattoo, my husband reluctantly admitted the elegance of the tattoo and its meaning, but still hates it. Blue hair grows out. Tattoos don't. Howevr, I think if he is going to have a tattoo, this one is a rather nice one.

Back to the analyst's couch. Now, you won't thank me for this next story. But I'm going to tell it anyway. During that same 16th or 17th year, my blue-haired son and I were driving down Glebe Road and he suddenly said: "Oh! I just thought of The Game!" "Huh? The game?" And he explained it to me. The simplicity of it is just stunning. The Game is to think of The Game, nothing more, nothing less. Or maybe more importantly NOT to think of The Game. But once you know about The Game, you will find yourself suddenly thinking of it (here is where I take a bow for sharing this lovely little mind fart of a game with you). What triggered the thought for my son that day was the act of driving down Glebe Road (maybe because he was on Glebe Road when someone taught him about The Game, just as I was on Glebe Road when he taught me about The Game). And thus, what triggers The Game for me is, of course, Glebe Road. Who knows what will now trigger the thought for you?

It is a never-ending quest to find things for EO to tell the analyst when he is an adult needing to blame his woes on his parents. Last week, the day before he went back to St Andrews Scotland (oh, yeah, I forgot to mention he came here for two weeks after we went there for two weeks...four lovely weeks with the ever elusive one), I made him spend the whole day with me so we could share some quality mother-son time. In our four weeks together, I was sure I had seen him for only 2 hours and 15 minutes...he thinks I exaggerate the paucity of time together, so I'll inflate it to 2 hours and 45 minutes. While we were having lunch together, I looked at him and said seriously. "I want to say something to you. I know you will hate me for it." Expecting some grand parental pronouncement, he earnestly responded: "No, I won't, Mom." I hesitated, smiled, and said "Glebe." "Oh, man! I don't believe it! You made me think of The Game!" Well, not quite in those words.

Something for him to tell the analyst.