Remote Control

I flicked through the channels on the TV from the sofa. 200,000 viewing options and nothing was sparking any joy. I looked down at the device in my hand and paused. The remote control I was gripping suddenly became the thing of interest. Remote. Control. It occurred to me that many things and even people in my life have had remote control over me. Far from my personal space, and yet having an influence over decisions I've made in the past. Probably some decisions I'll make in the future, even.

When I was 47 years old, I got my first tattoo. When I was young, I was curious about a woman I saw somewhere who had tattoos on her arms. I thought they were beautiful. I told this to my father, who responded by telling me, "Pretty girls like you don't get tattoos. Tattoos are ugly. God doesn't like them." That idea, that pretty girls don't get tattoos never left me. After my mother died in 2008, I went on a journey of self awareness. I began to question everything I was taught as a child. I went to a Bible school that my father would consider heretical. I learned a new truth there that overcame the cognitive dissonance of my church upbringing and sealed my beliefs into something so different than what I'd been taught growing up, that 2 of my 3 brothers actually confronted me and told me they thought I'd joined a cult. My spiritual focus had shifted to kindness and love and they were worried about my relationship with God. The hypocrisy of their faith drove me further away from the church. Eventually I began to question the idea that pretty girls don't get tattoos. I met a young woman at work who was absolutely gorgeous, tall, slender, with piercing green eyes... And who was covered from her knees to her shoulders in tattoos. Evidently, pretty girls do, in fact, get tattoos. I'm 53 years old now. My father found out I have tattoos just last year. That control was fairly remote.

And then there's the control bestowed on me by my mother, who I've already mentioned passed away in 2008. I have 2 sons, James and Peter. James has struggled with his mental health since he was 3 years old. By the time he was 14 he had been hospitalized 6 times. At the age of 14, he was being treated at Sheppard Pratt in Towson Maryland. My mother came along for the 2 hour drive from Cambridge so she could visit her first grandchild with me. We stayed for about an hour and then made the 2 hour drive back, stopping for dinner on the way. We left the ward where James was being housed, and crossed the parking lot to my car. Midway, my mother grabbed my arm and stopped me. With tears in her eyes she asked, "How are you doing this?"

"Doing what, Mom?"

"How are you doing all this? How are you handling this without breaking down," she cried.

"You know how it is Mom," I replied. "He's my baby boy. You do what you have to do. You find the strength for whatever you need to do, when it's your child, don't you?"

"You do, don't you?" she said, wiping her tears from her cheeks. "I couldn't be more proud of you. You're a good momma, Melody." And she hugged me so tight I couldn't breathe for a second. I grabbed her hand.

"I learned from the best, Mother. Let's go get something to eat."

I'll always remember that moment. When things with my son are challenging, when his adult choices make me cringe inside, when his needs outweigh my ability to meet them, I remember that the woman who taught me to be a mother thought that I was good mother. She was surprised by it. She was proud of it. She was amazed at the inner strength that I had tapped into in order to care for my child. There isn't a much more remote influence than that coming from beyond the grave.

All of this struck me as interesting, staring at the black plastic rectangle I held. I angled my thumb up and to the left and pressed the red button to turn the screen black. Amazing. I can sit on the sofa and control the view. How much of my sons' view will be controlled by my voice after I've passed from this life? The responsibility of that question is very real. My boys have grown up. They are living their own lives. But still, the voice of their parent who has always been there will be an influence in the choices they make. Even after I'm gone. Now is all the opportunity I have to remind them that they are good. Remind them that they are clever, and strong, and beautiful and that they will one day be the voice in someone else's head who will make choices by remote control.