부모님 사랑

아버님께서 병원에 입원해 계셨는데 전화도 못 드렸습니다. 탈장으로 수술을 받으신 후 며칠 동안 병원에 계셔야 했습니다. 일주일 전 통화에서 수술을 받게 되리란 이야기를 듣고도 깜빡 잊었습니다. 대수롭지 않은 일이니 자녀들에게 알리지 말라 하셨다는 말씀을 액면 그대로 믿은 제가 바보였지요.

나흘 동안 입원해 계시다 퇴원하셨다고 전화가 왔습니다. 퇴원 후 바로 토론토에 있는 아들에게 전화를 하신 겁니다. 타국에 있는 아들 몸에 이상이라도 생긴 건 아닐까 거꾸로 걱정을 하셨답니다.

가까이 있었더라면 사흘 내내 병상을 지켜드렸을 터인데 먼 곳에 있다 보니 이러지도 저러지도 못하고 그저 죄스런 마음뿐입니다. 최소한 전화는 드릴 수 있었는데 이 조차 못하였으니 한스럽습니다.

서울에 있는 남동생이 이틀, 지방의 여동생 둘이 번갈아 하루씩 병상을 지켰다고 합니다.

자식은 부모의 사랑을 알 수 없다는 말이 옳다는 걸 절절히 깨닫습니다. 자녀는 자신의 일을 우선하지만 부모는 자신의 일보다 자녀의 일을 먼저 생각하고 헌신하시니까요. 자신의 몸이 불편함에도 자식이 상하지나 않았는지를 먼저 걱정하시는 게 부모님 마음입니다.

자식은 기쁨이라 하는데 큰 자식이 되어서 이런 저런 핑계로 찾아뵙지 못하니 어쩌면 좋겠습니까. 이제 팔십을 눈앞에 두고 계시어 영원히 뵙지 못하게 될 날이 머지 않았는데 이렇게 시간만 보내고 있습니다.

가까이 있어 자주 뵐 수 있다는 건 복입니다. 부모님의 크신 사랑을 생각해보는 주말입니다.

<Keys to independence>

"We're going in the lake!" I heard myself blurt out.

And that's where we were indeed headed until my 16-year-old daughter collected her wits and slammed on the brakes. The old Jeep Cherokee shuddered to a stop and stalled, its front tires sunk into the grassy shoulder of the quiet country road. We sat silently, hearts pounding, staring numbly at the small, disconcertingly close lake.

Honestly, I thought, I'm not up to this.

It's been said babies should come with a manual. Since they don't, we hapless parents must fend for ourselves. It can get scary.

We do our best, enduring sleep deprivation, negotiating with fussy eaters, waving at the school bus, cheering our soccer players, foraging costumes for our thespians, dropping everything to help with homework projects, aching as we wipe the tears of a thousand physical and emotional mishaps. But that's just gruelling.

Scary happens at 16, which is accompanied by the dreaded announcement: "I want to get my driver's licence."

Oh Lord. Could there be anything more terrifying than sitting in the passenger seat with your child behind the wheel and a scarlet letter L stuck on the rear window to warn everyone else? I think not.

Some parents teach their children to drive. I can't decide if they're frugal or brave. My husband and I have tried to mitigate our part in the adventure by signing up our progeny for professional training. Unfortunately, driving schools tend to lessen their part in the adventure by insisting student drivers log practice hours with an adult who has a driver's licence. only a parent loves them enough to do that.

And so the tables are turned: You're in your child's hands now — a disorienting shift for both. No matter how hard parents stomp the imaginary brake pedal in front of the passenger seat, they're helpless. But probably not silent.

The problem is that teenagers' natural response to any parental directive or suggestion is varying degrees of opposition. Speedy compliance is rare.

I recall sitting in the passenger seat as my son drove into a busy city intersection to turn left. Seeing a gap in oncoming traffic, he began to release the clutch and ease the Jeep through the turn. Then he stopped to reconsider.

I watched, horrified, as a Honda hurtled toward us, basking in the right of way. "Go now!" I barked. "Right now!"

He didn't. "Mum," he began in a wounded tone. And then the Honda's trajectory finally registered with him. He popped the clutch and wrenched the wheel, launching the Jeep through the intersection. The Honda sped triumphantly past our back bumper.

My son calmly pulled over. "Mum," he resumed with a look of injured dignity, "please don't shout at me."

"Okay, I won't," I responded weakly, "if you don't frighten me."

There were hours — hours — spent bunny-hopping down that tranquil country road, the long-suffering Jeep trying valiantly to teach first my son, then my daughter, how to manage a standard transmission. But I was determined to be patient, supportive — the good parent.

My husband is more clever than I am — it was always me in the passenger seat. once, our daughter became bent on her father's approbation. She persuaded him to allow her to take him for a drive. They were back quickly.

He went straight to his home office. She came inside soon after, sniffling. Something about a corner and a hill and a bus. And then her father telling her that that was atrocious and they were going home. No further conversation between them. For several days.

She never asked to drive him again. Why didn't I think of that?

Now our youngest, another daughter, is of the age. It has taken me four years to recover from the last go-round. I don't know how parents who have brought forth their children in quick succession find the fortitude. Twins … inconceivable.

As I steel myself to again strap into the passenger seat, it occurs to me that perhaps this is what it will feel like if I grow old and dotty and my children must take the wheel of my life. The disorienting shift will happen once more — but this time it will be for good, no matter how much I stomp the imaginary brake pedal. It's not the way I'd like my story to go, but if it does I hope I'll be able to remember only a child loves a parent enough to do that.

My mind wanders back four years, cruising along the country road, my daughter exploring third gear. "Watch out for the turkey up there," I said gently.

She didn't reply but relaxed a little, lowering her shoulders and easing her vise-like grip on the wheel. A warm wind wafted through the open windows as the Jeep rolled happily along.

"Be careful of the turkey," I prompted.

Nothing. "You might want to slow down for the turkey," I suggested, the pitch of my voice rising.

Still nothing. Suddenly the Jeep swung violently to the left, screeched across the median and stalled. "Mum! There's a turkey on the road!"

Yes, dear.

The turkey inspected our front bumper, then shook its wings and sauntered into the woods.

(From Friday's Globe and Mail March 27, 2009 by Fiona Beaty who lives on Bowen Island, B.C.)