As part of my goal to do 101 specific things within 1,001 days, I investigated the possibility of my 13-year-old son, Houdin, performing magic tricks at one of the local care centers. For Houdin, magic tricks, illusions, sleight of hand, prestidigitation--these are things that give him a bit of an ego boost. They make his mind work. They get him the attention he loves so much. Because Houdin has very little fear of standing in front of a group of people he doesn't even know and asking them for money, or experimenting with a new trick, I felt that the challenge of performing for residents of a care center or nursing home would be a good thing for him. I asked him about it. He was up for it. I made the calls.
Within a week, we were preparing for Houdin's first performance at the care center. He'd been biking to the local bakery several times a week busking for bucks while showing tourists his tricks. Some days, he'd come home with over $20.00. He was no stranger to performance. This would just be a different setting.
I'll tell you this, in case you haven't been reading my blog for long. Houdin is a pseudonym taken from the name of a famous magician, Robert Houdin, the man from whom Houdini based his stage name. Houdin and I butt heads. He's stubborn. I'm stubborn. He wants to sit around all day and be a boy, burping and making fun of his siblings and farting. I want him to work hard at being a man. He doesn't know the value of a dollar. I want him to learn it. It's a bit of a battle. No. Let me rephrase that. It's a constant battle.
So you're probably wondering why I would get this child--this child who would very quickly be diagnosed with an attention deficit disorder and medicated if he were in public school--involved in a project that took preparation and forethought. If you're not wondering that, I can assure you that I am.
We have appointments every two weeks on Thursdays to put on a half-hour to forty-five minute show for the residents of the care center. About a week before each event, I tell Houdin to start preparing for his upcoming show. About four days before each event, I ask him if he's prepared yet. "No," he says. No promise to prepare. Mini-lecture from me. Exasperated okays from him.
About two days before the event, I ask him if he's prepared yet. "No," he says, defensively. A bit of a bigger lecture from me. More greatly exasperated okays from him.
But no action.
The day of the event, I remind him that he will be leaving at a specific time to go to the care center, and I remind him to get his things together, to put together a routine, to make sure he has clean clothes and to be sure that all of his tricks work.
Fifteen minutes before the event...do I even have to write it? It's so painfully obvious what we go through.
Once we're in the car, I have to send him back into the house to change his pants or to wear the shoes that actually have toes in them or to get his magic tricks. The whole way to the care center, we're frustrated with each other and I'm nervous about his performance.
Today was no exception.
We were in even more of a rush today because of piano practice, so I made sure to remind Houdin what day it was (he often asks what day it is and doesn't seem to care from one day to the next) and what our schedule would be like. Today, in a rush, we left for the care center, but not until I had sent Houdin back into the house twice--once for a change of pants and once for a change of shoes. He has nice new dress shoes. He just seemed to think that the ones the dog had chewed to pieces were a better choice. Or maybe--and this is more likely--he just didn't think.
I did NOT want to go. I knew Houdin was unprepared. I figured he didn't have most of his tricks, and I was sure he was going to do several tricks that these residents had seen before.
We arrived at the care center to find many of the residents already assembled in the dining hall where Houdin gives his show. As he began to pull his tricks from his black and silver magic bag, it was clear that I'd been right. Several of the tricks were broken. A couple were missing pieces.
He was totally and completely unprepared.
I don't know...maybe the Lord is trying to show me something. Maybe He's trying to teach me patience or teach me that I can't be in control all the time or something. But I'm not getting it. All I'm getting is that I very much wanted to have a son that could learn, could be a gentleman, could rival any boyscout in the whole being prepared category. Instead, I have a son who can't remember how to spell his middle name. I'm totally serious.
I really hesitate in writing about this. It's a source of constant struggle for me, this relationship with this son of mine. I keep waiting for the light to go on in his head, for the whole thing to click, for the motivation to kick in, but it just...it just doesn't. And it drives me mad.
So, here we are, standing in the dining room of the care center, these dozens of expectant faces staring back at us, and Houdin's asking me which trick he should do. There really aren't that many from which to choose. He has a deck of cards, but only one table at a time can see those. He has his cups and balls trick, but one of the cups, less than three weeks old, is already broken. And he forgot the balls. He could do his trick where he blows bubbles and then catches one in mid-air and passes it around the room--a solid ball. But he doesn't have any bubbles in the bottle. He could do the color cube, but he broke the cube. He could do the stiff rope trick, but he broke the rope. In the end, he has only about five tricks he can do. Five little tricks. Dozens of expectant faces. Thirty to forty-five minutes.
I watch him struggle through a few tricks, drop a few bombs, and I see a few blank faces. I can't stand it. I can't stand seeing my son fail, and I can't stand seeing the residents' confusion when a trick goes wrong.
I, being the magical mom, pull a few things out of my hat. We'll do "black magic," I decide, where I send Houdin out of the room and we, the people in the room, choose an object. When he returns, he uses his brilliant mind-reading ability to detect the object. I ask him about several objects in the room. "Is it this one?" I ask. No. "This one?" No. "This one?" Yep. The crowd oohs and aahs. They're impressed. We do it again. This time, with no words. The residents are awed. We're working together. We're making happen. It's working because we were prepared. I wish I could get this into my son's head. Just be prepared, Houdin. Then there will be no blank stares, no embarrassment. no disappointment. I tried to explain this to Houdin over lunch. He just rolled his eyes.
When my husband Bo came home, I told him the tired old story.
"It's simple," Bo said. "Don't take him anymore."
"Bo, I can't DO that."
"You can. See this?" He pointed to the dates on the white board calendar where I have the care center appointments written in dry-erase marker. With one finger, he erased the words "care center."
"Don't take him anymore," he said. "Don't talk to him about it. Don't remind him about it. Don't say a word. After a while, he'll say, 'Why don't we go to the care center anymore?' Tell him that if he wants to do it, he'll have to prepare, make the call and make the arrangements to get there. Tell him you'll drive him, but he has to make the plan."
"It won't happen," I told him. In my mind, I could see it all falling away. I could see Houdin spending his summer sitting around watching the Marx Brothers or playing with army soldiers.
But even more, I could see the residents. I see Bob, who has very little control over his arms and legs, and I see him reach out his hand to pick a card and smile when Houdin shows him that card at the end of the trick. I see Kyle, the young basketball player who was the cream of the crop, rendered quadrapalegic after a horrible car accident that caught the community's attention and propelled them into prayer. I can still see the look on Kyle's smiling face today while we played Black Magic, hear his broken, struggling words as he called my son's name and said, "You...you...did...a...seriously...good...job. I...I...I...like...this...game. I...like...this...game."
I can't let Kyle down. I can't let those residents--gathered in the dining room with ice cream dripping off of their chins, their childlike, expectant faces staring, waiting--I just can't let them down. They love to see Houdin walk through the door. Even with his broken tricks and missing pieces and slurred speech and ripped jeans and forgotten routine. They love him.
Maybe that's all that matters. Maybe that's all it takes. I don't know. Maybe he really doesn't need to be as prepared as I'd like. Maybe I should just let it go, let that willingness to show up and perform be enough. It seems to be enough for Houdin. It seems to be enough for Kyle.
Maybe it should be enough for me, too.
What do you think?
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