Celebrating on Ash Wednesday
Atlanta, GA
February 26, 2020
Twenty times we have celebrated the birth of our first child. Today is the 19th anniversary of the first time. And perhaps the last during which he is living under our roof.
Most people rue having a birthday on or near Christmas, for fear of being lost in the holiday merriment and seasonal shuffle.
Perhaps more deflating is having one on Ash Wednesday. Merriment comes only in vague recollections wrapped in Mardi Gras hangovers. And the only shuffle is of penitents, heads bowed and hands clasped, returning slowly to dust.
Fasting and remorse are the order of this day, as the Faithful brace for forty more in a wilderness of abstinence and temperance. Our younger son annually acclimates his birthday to the cornucopia of Christmas. My older one must this year accommodate his to the desert of Lent.
So today our foreheads are marked, our knees are bent, and our hearts repent. But our mind reflects and our thoughts slow, even as we fast.
Parenting is…to paraphrase Newton on his own less arduous task of understanding the universe…like helping a child continually sift the shore for smoother stones or prettier shells, beside a great ocean of unknown challenges and unpredictable consequences.
With Alexander, we have uncovered a chest of gems. But the tide always threatens to erode more of the beach. With adulthood upon him and college approaching, the waves are rising. And, as any parent can attest, the undertow is always there.
He and we endured the natural ebbs and flows, peaks and valleys, advances and retreats, of any march to maturation…from the tenderness and tempests of infancy, thru the energy and ebullience of childhood, to the sardonic surliness and sincere satisfaction of the teenage years.
And our son confronted and surmounted his own unique impediments, signifying his potential, steeling his character, and swelling our pride. Like any kid, he could torment his parents the way Mozart tortured coloratura sopranos. But the high notes were always worth the strain.
When Alexander sets his mind to something he is…like his mother…disciplined, determined, and diligent. If he really wants something, he always finds a way to get it. One day each week, his high school let out early, yet the buses left late. He insisted on not staying a couple extra hours at school waiting on a bus. He could not yet drive, and his parents couldn’t pick him up.
Then, like stationing Mormon evangelicals on the border to deter illegal immigrants, he found a solution more simple and obvious than any previously contemplated. He simply walked the six miles home each week rather than await the communal ride. He didn’t get home much earlier, but he got some exercise. And made his point.
One year he insisted on visiting his grandparents in Tampa. We told him we’d check flights a few days later. Rather than await his sluggish parents, he came back in a few minutes, having found several that would work. We booked the trip that moment.
He likewise took the reins of his college admission process, and galloped into each flight program to which he applied. Among other talents and traits inherited from his mother is a terrific ear for music. Alexander committed himself to learning the trombone, and took initiative to be selected section lead in his school band.
Alexander can also take after his father. The physical comparison is undeniable. One of the first times I walked into Alexander’s high school, searching for his classroom, a student I’d never seen stopped me in the hall and asked if I was looking for Alexander Breen. A bit taken aback, I told him that I was, but wondered how he knew.
“Well”, he said. “You look just like him, so I assumed you were his dad.”
I’m not sure how my son would feel about that, but his father took it as a compliment.
Like his father, my son can be reticent, reclusive, and stubborn. Better, I suppose, than pompous, overbearing, and docile. He settles easily into routines, then resists coming out of them. Like San Diego weather or North Dakota winters, he can become set in his ways. Those who perpetually suffer these missives need not be convinced that Alexander came naturally by that tendency.
But he is also relatively immune to peer, or parental, pressure. During World War II, French General Leclerc insisted that one must “never carry out an idiotic order.” Alexander would not need such instruction. Like most teenagers, he has been known to adjudicate the merits…and unilaterally nullify…any order he is given. Like his father, he doesn’t mind authority. He just doesn’t like to be told what to do.
But that is at home. At school or at work, he conscientious, abides by the rules, and fulfills his obligations.
Alexander has always nobly shunned (or adeptly camouflaged) the drinking, drugs, and sex most parents fear (for the kids, at least). Not that he casts aspersions on those who indulge such vices. He simply avoids or ignores them, adopting the wise Spanish folk expression cada loco con su tema. He adheres to his own theme, letting others craft theirs.
I could go on about Alexander, but do not want to risk sounding redundant, being repetitive, or saying the same things over and over again. I’ll merely say I honored to be his father, and proud he is my son.
Ash Wednesday may not be conducive to a festive birthday. But we’ll celebrate anyway. Perhaps an extra piece of bread with our large glasses of water.
Then we’ll find a nice restaurant to do so again on another day. Maybe Friday, when even Lent won’t preclude lobster, Alexander’s favorite food. To ensure a table, we’ll make a reservation.
And even if we don’t, I’m sure Alexander will.
JD
