Dawn is a magical time. It is as if the ocean of angels that accompany us in sleep feel braver about lapping up on the shores of wakefulness. I love to linger there, where the concerns of the day before are lulled by the repetitive surf of heaven's song and new thoughts soar like a star's point of pelicans riding the wind.

 

It was in just one of these moments of early morning enlightenment than an answer came to me about my son's obnoxious adolescent outbursts. Pay him.

 

Like one of the pelicans in formation was the single thought that I had indeed given punishment every conceivable chance for success. Another bird flying silently was the idea that money got his attention like no "Please don't do that" ever could. Yet another thought, part of the whole, was that he needs to know I love him regardless of his behavior. One bird in the flock, whose wings made neither move nor sound was the realization that I need to know I love him regardless of his behavior.

 

So I made a little promise to myself that seemed less and less plausible as the day and its more jaded light took hold. After each major display of obstinacy, I would noiselessly leave a dollar on my son's bed. I went to the bank and asked for brand new crisp one dollar bills so that there could be no doubt that these had not somehow fallen out of an overlooked pocket.

 

I hadn't really pictured what the desired result would be but after the first one appeared, I got it. The perplexed child came out of his room, clearly robbed of his usual veneer of aloof confidence.

 

He asked his father tentatively, "Is this for me?"

 

"It probably is."

 

"Is it from Mom?"

 

"I think so."

 

"Why?" he couldn't resist asking.

 

"I guess because she loves you."

 

All of the truly important thoughts and feelings transpired without benefit of vocalization, but they were as potent as if they'd been broadcast on NPR.

 

I had told myself that I had no expectation of buying good behavior, but I did both notice and enjoy the weeks that followed, which were refreshingly smooth, although fortunately not so perfect as to prevent the appearance of a bunch more greenbacks.

 

I was appreciating the whole exercise from my vantage point of mistress of ceremonies and had only given passing consideration to what it felt like for my child to be on the receiving end.

 

Then one day shortly before Christmas the pressures of shopping, entertaining and sugar powered children had each taken a turn testing my emotional tensile strength. Add to this a baby who had taken up screaming every time he was subjected to the indignity of a car seat and you will have the vague parameters of the quality of my mothering. I snatched the mail on the way to the car for yet another string of errands, bracing myself for the inevitable siren from the back seat. Barking at children to buckle their seat belts I ripped open the first layer of Christmas card envelopes and fell suddenly silent. There, tucked in with a message of good cheer, was a check.

 

"For me?" Evidently so.

 

"From whom?" I rechecked the return address.

 

"Why?" Ethereal words like love, support and belief in what we are doing floated by like a flock of birds. The baby hushed for no apparent reason.

 

"What's wrong, mommy?" came a little voice.

 

"Nothing is wrong, dear. Someone loves us." I said, letting the words sink into my own soul.

 

There is something to be said for rewards. Good grades when you have memorized the periodic table, a prize when you have sold more magazine subscriptions than anyone else in third grade, and a promotion when you have put in six months of overtime are all ways to encourage further progress. Such acknowledgment makes me want to stand up tall, throw my shoulders back and smile. It's like the joy of a garden, carefully tended.

 

But there is another feeling, much worth the having and not easily found. When you glimpse the vast reality that Someone loves you, not because you have performed or worked or merited it, it's like the gift of finding a field full of poppies growing wild, unasked and undeserved. It's a feeling that brings me to my knees.

 

 

photo by Andy Sullivan

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