Part One—Right Now

Stunned speechless is no way to be when one is trying to write, but I’ll give it a shot anyway. I’ve just found out that Anker has become one of this year’s laureates of the Masovia region’s annual physics competition for eighth-graders. It’s a title that grants entry to one’s high school and study track of choice nationwide. This means that the SAT-like exams coming up in May and the ensuing intricate application process to follow shall, in Anker’s case, be a string of mostly stress-free formalities. He’ll have to wear the white shirts and show up to all the things, but he won’t have to spend a single nail-biting minute wondering where or whether he’ll get in.

The regional competition consisted of three stages, each a lengthy test followed by a dramatic wait for the preliminary results, which would then be re-tallied into final results following a cliffhanging period for appeal and review. The first round was held in October at school but the latter two (in January and March) required taking the day off and traveling to a designated testing site. I chaperoned Anker and spent my waits with my spine long and my breaths slow, meditating diligently on the off chance that my selfless focus might somehow help effect the desired outcome. I see how that’s not selfless at all, yet that’s how it felt and the effort it commanded was the perfect way to channel and tame my ravenous energy.

Physics was one of many subjects one could pursue. At each stage, all those still in the running were fussed over and cut much slack by their respective schools, because laureates and finalists help raise their school’s rank locally and nationally, thus making teachers and administrators as pleased with the champions as are parents and grandparents.

I have always been puzzled by something about the phrase “I am proud of you.” I suppose I bristle at the way the wrong meaning (excessive self-importance) invariably muddles the right one, which is supposed to convey purely the pleasure we feel as a result of achievement, whether our own or that of someone close to us. As it turns out, I don’t even need this phrase in my life at all, because when I try to deconstruct how I’m feeling I’m readily able to break down this confusing molecule—proudness—into clear and distinct constituent parts. Though I may be baffled by proud, I am quite clearly grateful and impressed. Basically, it is as if a miracle has taken place and I am its beneficiary on account of my love for a person. So I tend to say that instead.

Part Two—Back Then

I recently found some worksheets Anker filled out in first grade. My Favorite Activity, My Strengths—that kind of thing. My heart exploded predictably over the smudgy cuteness, but more importantly I was amazed at the way seven-year-old Anker’s responses weren’t far off from ones he might give today, as a sub-national physics champion nearly fourteen years of age. It’s amazing how little our essential self changes even as years pass and we appear to transform completely in most ways.

**My Favorite Activity**
My favorite activity number one is exposing myself to risk.
My favorite activity number two is experimenting.
My favorite activity number three is reading.

**My Strengths**
I know physics.
I know chemistry.
I know math.

**What I’m Good At**
I’m good at listening.
I’m good at sculpting in clay.
I make good arguments.

I had a similar experience a few years ago when I came across my own self-assesment from more than two decades earlier. Amid my college memorabilia there was evidence of the interests I had listed at age eighteen as an incoming freshman on a form. Languages and photography, I had written. Considering how lost I remembered myself feeling and being at the time, it was shocking how accurate this appeared all these years later. This was definitely a turning point on my path to integrating my past with my present.

Coda

I have been writing about my son for as many years as I’ve been a mom. I have swooned over his sweetness, marveled at his brightness, quoted his words, and studied his growth, but never have I felt the way I do now—or as unable to define just what I’m feeling. So far all his stories have seemed like my story to tell. But this? I’m in a supporting role now. His stage is no longer a section of mine.