I feel like I have hit some kind of wall in the parenting role. I suppose after 13 years of dreaming up stuff to do with this crew, I am just tired of it. Vacation week looms and already everyone is asking what our plans are. Mind you, I still have to work, like a lot of other moms, but we are magically supposed to come up with satisfying, stimulating and educational activities for the kids this week (I have yet to meet a kid for whom any activity is both educational and entertaining). What has begun to happen is that my suggestions are being rejected. For the first time ever, I am being told my ideas are boring, and why can’t they go to so-and-so’s house where the parents’ ideas are really fun and exciting. By fun and exciting, I think they mean either no one really cares what they are doing or else there is some super-parent who has concocted a neat project, bought a new video game or volunteered take them all somewhere I am not willing to go. 

A lot of it is just fatigue. Someone asked me if I wanted to go to the children’s museum and I cringed, recalling all the times I took Dex and Neve and their cronies to every museum, maze, animal farm and zoo and ecological centers and apple picking and train rides and beaches and exploring the city . . . oh, don’t make me do it anymore! Colin will, sadly, only do any of those things if some relative takes pity on him. He can complain to his therapist about it when he’s forty.

The other weekend, we had some families over to watch the NCAA frozen four hockey tournament. We were all rooting for BU, but if anyone out there watched the game, BU was outplayed for most of the game by Miami (of Ohio) and things were looking really bleak in the third period. Anyway, we had a sketch pad on the coffee table, and I idly began sketching as the tension rose. Thirty seconds after I began to draw, BU scored. We exhalted, I went back to drawing and they scored again. All the kids decided that it was my drawing that was bringing BU good luck, so I found myself with a bunch of kids draped around my shoulders as I sketched and they watched. 

What seemed like just a funny little anecdote soon turned into much more for me. As I sketched, all these kids kept complementing me, telling me how great I was at drawing. At first, I demurred, saying my truth, that I am not very good, but that they were sweet to say so. I suppose the part of me that always wants to be accurate and give a realistic perspective to kids wanted them to know that maybe I am good for a ten year old, but I am not an artist. But I kept drawing and they kept admiring my picture, and all through the overtime period, I continued to protest. But then Neve said to me, “What’s wrong with you? We keep telling you we like your work and you keep telling us it’s awful! Are we all wrong?”

I stopped and looked up at all the beautiful faces around me. I was rejecting them, I was rejecting their positive opinions of me in the interest of what - modesty? Accuracy? My truth had to win over their truth every time? I was instantly chastened. 

“You’re right, Neve. If you guys like my drawing, then I am pleased. You all have really good critical eyes.” Their beaming faces were such a delight.

By the way, I kept drawing, and BU won. I’m thinking of hiring myself out for the World Series and the Super Bowl.

For a reason I could not place, I had simply a horrible day last Thursday. No matter what I tried, I couldn’t shake it. For someone known for her steady neutrality, I was an angry, emotional wreck. By dinner, everyone was giving me a wide berth.

The next morning, I knew why. My dear cousin had taken his own life Thursday. It was if his suffering and the collective suffering of his family had someone poured into my emotional pool and had been surging beneath the surface all day.

The past few days have been overwhelmed by details that no one ought to ever hear. It took me at least 36 hours to be able to say out loud what had occurred; I cannot bear to think how hard it must be for his wife and children. 

Right before I found out, I had a phone call with a friend who’s child seems to be showing early stages of depression. We talked about their plan, and I remember  thinking how my cousin had really done remarkably well waging his war against the depression gene that swims in his family blood. He had done everything the experts suggest, the medicine, the lifestyle changes, the attention to exercise and whole foods. He did a lot of volunteer work. he made a lot of people feel loved and cared for. But battling depression is a lot like battling cancer. And this time, the depression won. 

I told my kids that my cousin had died, but I chose not to share the details. My kids know too much about death as it is. I wasn’t planning to tell them more until Neve overheard Tom and I discussing it. Her confused expression came around the corner of the door. She sat down and asked questions, and her face alternately registered alarm and fascination. Later, I overheard her out in the driveway telling her best friend. Part of me was angry, as I didn’t want this to be a news item, but then I figured she needed to assimilate this her own way.

“I don’t understand any of this,” her friend said. “it doesn’t make sense.”

Neve kicked the soccer ball against the garage. 

“It’s not supposed to make sense. It’s just . . . sad.”