On Monday I rejoined the Potter family at Platform 9 ¾. For the characters, no time had elapsed since
the tearful, soul-filling epilogue of “Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows” in
July of 2007 and August 2016 – but for the first readers of the novels, the
first audiences of the films, - it’s been a lifetime.
Rowling did an excellent job of writing a children’s series
for grown-ups. I remember buying the
novels “for my kids” and having to hyper-caffeinate my way through the school-morn
routine due to staying up ‘til 3 AM to finish off the book so as to not be
competing with my children for imagination time between its pages. Doing so freed me to referee them with a
sense of decorum, observing who had read how far and how long by tracking the
movement of various bookmarks through the pages. It also allowed me to ask important life
questions cleverly disguised as book discussions:
“Why do you think Dumbledore withheld that information from
Harry?”
“Would the outcome have changed if he hadn’t?”
“Do you think Dumbledore feels responsible for some of the
decisions Harry made?”
Tuesday morning, I finished “Cursed Child”. Hyper-caffeination was not required. My
“house elves” were given their socks a few years ago, and they have gone on to their
own abodes. So, there was no one with
whom I had to share the book – but
that meant there was no one with whom I could
share the book. Suddenly I realized I identified most with Dumbledore’s
portrait: an animated memory to be glanced at for reference. Like him, I look out from my frame into my
young adult children’s lives, powerless to intercede, but still hopeful that
enough wisdom was instilled in the past for them to apply to their present.
Determined to attend to the dust-motes of angst stirred by
the retrospective tome, I called my eldest child, who now lives several hours
away. The Child Who Must Not Be Named (TCWMNBN) gave me some unexpected news: a
relationship of nearly two years had ended.
My first reaction to the news was to express my sympathy for
those involved in the status change, and my next was to apologize for my bad
example, which surely had somehow
contributed to the melancholic event.
Then, a conversation followed that was even more surprising than the
news of the break-up. I was rightfully, gently, firmly, (did I mention
rightfully?) put in my place.
First, I was told Thank You.
Thank you for being sad, Mom. Thank you for wanting to make all the hurt
in my world go away. Second, The Child
Who Must Not Be Named called me out on my self-blame. Why
would I assume that I was such a bad
parent that TCWMNBN could not learn from my mistakes and avoid them? Did I
think TCWMNBN was stupid? Could I see the hubris in assuming blame for a
relationship in which I was never a primary contributor? And why on earth did I
automatically equate the ending of the relationship with failure?
Smart kid.
Just maybe, like Harry and Albus, we need to trust the truth
of our love for one another just a wee bit more – and use it like a compass to
navigate our way through the dissimilar expectations of our mutual adulthoods.
