Finding It: And Finally Satisfying My Hunger for Life (4 page)

“I’m sure he knows that part, too.”

“But I’m not sure,” I said.

“It’s a little late, don’t you think?” Tom said. “Besides, he’s probably seen everything and then some in the movies or on the Internet.”

“Yeah, but I know seeing it and talking about it are two different things.” I took a deep breath and sighed. “This isn’t fair.”

“What isn’t?”

“Wolfie’s still in bed, sleeping soundly without a care in his head other than what he and Liv are going to do today—and I’m pacing the kitchen, wondering if dipping Cheetoes in peanut butter might make me feel better about not ever having talked to my son about sex.”

“Probably not,” Tom said. “I think we should take a walk.”

“Yeah, good idea.”

I had a good, albeit sardonic laugh as I thought of being on maintenance in the context of my life. First, let me say that I wasn’t yet on maintenance. I was looking ahead. In reality, thanks to a handful
of macaroons, I was up one third of a pound, which meant I still had a pound and a half to go before I reached my weight loss goal. On my blog, I wrote, “Guys, what if I’m on maintenance next week?”

What if I was?

That’s what made me laugh.

What was I trying to maintain beyond my weight—and even that wasn’t set in stone?

I made a list in my head, and the things I needed to fix or change outnumbered the things I was content to merely maintain.

Who came up with this concept of maintenance?

I realized my life was similar to my closet. No matter what time or year, it could always use a little straightening or cleaning. The job was never finished. Motherhood was the same. The problems changed, but they didn’t end or get any easier. At one point when Tom and I were on our walk, I looked up at the sky and mused, “Oh really, God. Why didn’t you tell me that it wasn’t going to ever end or get easier—or that the poopy diapers were just a warm-up?”

The following afternoon, I had an opportunity to talk with Wolfie. I found him on the sofa, watching TV. Alone! Miraculously, he wasn’t with Liv. The two of them spent more time together than co-joined twins. I seized the moment.

“Hey, I want to talk about you and Liv,” I said, trying to sound casual and relaxed as I plopped down on the sofa.

“Yeah, Mom. What’s up?”

“We’ve never officially or even unofficially talked about sex,” I said. “You know, the sex talk.”

“You mean where babies come from?” he asked.

“No, more like how babies are made.”

“Ma!”

“What?”

“Please don’t go there,” he said.

“Really?”

“It’s gross.”

“But you’re in a relationship.”

“It’s gross.”

I took a deep breath. I agreed with him. I was uncomfortable and embarrassed talking about sex with my son, not that I would characterize what we were doing as talking about sex. But I wanted to make a point. Unfortunately for me, I hadn’t thought that part through to a conclusive place I could articulate. In my head, I had only gotten as far as “we need to talk.”

So I just looked at Wolfie until he said, “What? What are you looking at?” How could I explain what I was looking at? I was looking at sixteen years of life, his remarkable growth, my frustrating inadequacies, and the fact that in the beginning it had been just the two of us and now here we were, the two of us brought together yet again by the miracle of life. I could have, and probably should have, just been forthright and said that from the little intelligence I had been able to gather, I knew that he and Liv were still as chaste as the Jonas Brothers, and I wanted to keep it that way, at least for a while. But if things were to change, here’s what I wanted him to know. Here’s what I had learned about men and women, sex and responsibility. But there wasn’t a chance in hell of that coming out of my mouth.

I also thought about asking if he would take a vow of chastity and I would take a vow of silence and the two of us would meet back here in a few years. But that didn’t happen either. Instead, I blurted out that I was looking forward to being a grandmother
someday. But he was way too young to start giving me grandchildren.

Wolfie responded exactly as I would have if I had been sixteen and sitting cross from me after that ridiculous statement. He stared at me with a look of startled bewilderment. I shrugged. I thought it was a nice try—the best I could do.

“Do you feel better now?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I said.

“Mom, let me just talk to Dad about it,” he said. “How about that?”

“Fine.”

Relieved, I walked out of the room. About two minutes later, I was kicked in the butt by reality. I couldn’t believe what I had agreed to. Had I lost my mind? God only knew what kind of information Wolfie might get from his dad. Getting your sex talk from Eddie Van Halen wasn’t recommended in any of the parenting books I read.

A few days later, Liv flew back home, Wolfie went back on the road, and I reached my goal of losing 40 pounds. I celebrated the milestone at the kitchen table in my sweats, asking myself what now? Maintenance? Ha! Instead of throwing myself a party for hitting my goal, as I had always expected to do, I went for a hike with Tom up and down Pinnacle Peak, a rugged mountain outside of Phoenix.

As we huffed and puffed, I asked Tom if his parents had ever talked to him about sex. They hadn’t, he said. He had learned about the facts of life from friends on the playground. I had discovered that information the same way, separating fact from fiction as I went along. Did anyone get the formal, sit-down sex talk? Or
was that just a chapter in the parenting books that everyone skipped?

“I’d like to think that I progressed beyond my parents,” I said.

“Well, I have always spoken pretty openly about sex to my girls,” Tom said. “They even told me when they got their periods.”

“Aren’t you evolved,” I said.

He grinned.

“I just recently told your mother that I’ve seen your penis,” I said.

“What?” he said. “What’d she say?”

“ ‘Oh, honey. I’ve seen it too. It’s no big thing!’ ” I said, laughing.

By the time we returned home, I had put all joking aside and decided to speak to my son again and make sure we had the kind of talk that I knew in my heart was right. I wanted to make sure he was prepared, responsible and sensitive—and informed—if only for my own peace of mind or just to prove that I could do better than my parents. I knew that I would beat myself up if I didn’t do it.

Later that day, after working up my determination and thinking about what I wanted to say, I called Wolfie at his hotel. He was waiting for Matt to finish bundling gear before they headed to the arena.

“Do you remember the talk I wanted to have with you after Thanksgiving?” I said.

“Maybe,” he said.

“The one about sex,” I said.

“Ma!”

“Have you spoken with your dad about it yet?”

“No.”

“Good,” I said. “I wanted to get to you first.”

“Ma, it’s gross—and whatever happens between me and Liv, it’s none of your business.”

“You’re right,” I said. “That would be gross, as you say. I don’t want to know about the two of you. This isn’t about Liv, in fact. It’s about you.” I paused momentarily, waiting for him to cut me off. He didn’t—and I knew right then I had him and this was my time.

“Look, I just want to tell you that as far as you and Liv or you and anyone else that comes into your life goes, it’s about your heart and hers. Don’t give your heart and self away easily. But when you do, don’t protect it to the point where you don’t open yourself up to your feelings. Always be kind and treat other people the way you want to be—”

“Ma, I know,” he said, cutting me off. “Treat people the way I want to be treated. You say it all the time. I get it.”

“One more thing,” I said.

“What?”

“Babies come from storks.”

Relieved, I told Tom about the conversation. I don’t know if it was helpful, but I felt better.

A few days later, all of us rendezvoused at the Van Halen concert in San Diego. Before the show, I pulled Ed aside and asked him to speak to Wolfie about being responsible and sensitive in relationships. I didn’t come right out and say he was serious about his girlfriend and we needed to make sure he was well informed. But Ed understood. I saw him take it in, think about what he should say, and then he looked at his girlfriend Janie, at me, and at Tom, and nodded.

“Got it,” he said.

I was nervous about what he might say, because he could be
crude even when trying to be sensitive. But I felt like I had run out of options. God help me, I turned it over to Ed.

A little before the show, I was standing with Tom in the hallway outside Ed’s dressing room when I thought I overheard him having
the talk
. I shushed Tom and inched closer to the doorway. Tom was right behind me when I turned around and we heard Ed tell Wolfie to listen to his heart, to be careful of who he gave it to, and then “when you give it away be careful of their heart, too.” Then he added, “Treat each other with kindness.”

I gritted my teeth at Tom.

“That’s what I tried to tell him,” I said.

“Shush,” Tom said. “They’re still going.”

We listened closer and heard Ed finish: “… and be wary of all the sluts and skanks and whores who will want to be with you because you play in a band and have a famous last name.”

I shrugged. I wouldn’t have said that last part. But it was essentially the same talk I had tried to have. I wanted to praise Ed, but remembered that we were eavesdropping and quickly grabbed Tom and guided us away from the door. Then Wolfie strolled out and into the hall. He was in a good mood.

“Hey, Ma,” he said.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“Nothing,” he said. “Just talking to Dad.”

I watched him walk back to his dressing room. All of us were learning about the facts of life.

What do you do for an encore after you’ve changed your life?

I asked myself that question as we sped across the Mojave Desert. It was New Year’s Eve, and Tom, Wolfie, Tom’s son Tony, and I were driving to Los Angeles from Scottsdale. I had asked everyone to share their resolutions.

“Guys, if you don’t say anything, I’m going to make them for you,” I said.

They looked like I had asked one of them to walk the rest of the way. Just blank faces and dumb stares.

“It’s not like you’re being recorded,” I said. “Just say something.”

“V, what about you?” Tony asked.

I got all set to speak, and then I drew a blank, too. I couldn’t think of anything to say. I’m not big on New Year’s Eve celebrations and am usually ho-hum about making resolutions. They just
invite disappointment. Besides, I had already made more than my share of resolutions the previous forty-seven years, and I didn’t want to seem like I was hogging all the good ones.

I made a feeble attempt at getting out of the jam by joking that I was on maintenance, and my goal was to keep everything status quo. That earned me a chorus of boos from the peanut gallery. So I made resolutions for other people. I said I wanted politicians to have clarity. I wanted the parents and families of soldiers fighting in the Middle East to see their loved ones return home safely. I wanted health for my parents and success and happiness for Tom and his children.

“I’d love to see peace…”

“Oh, no, there she goes again, getting all Gandhi on us,” Wolfie interrupted. “Come on, Mom. What about you?”

“I told you,” I said. “I’m not making any.”