The sky was predictably gray and spitting drops of rain fell haphazardly upon us. We were at the top of the Space Needle, my son and I. He wanted it to be the first stop on our Mother-Son trip to Seattle. We had accompanied my husband while he was attending a conference and it was the first time I would have any meaningful quality time with just my middle child in many months.

Earlier, when the elevator doors opened, he moved quickly to the doors to go outside onto the deck and I followed. He was so excited he would have run, save for the crowd of people in front of us. I thought of the last time we were here together as a family. That was the middle of the summer and the sun was shining in a clear sky, with the city stretched out ahead of us for miles. We were all, literally, at the height of life.

This time, though, things were different for me. The dreary, almost black sky, was mocking, as though the weather was cast purposefully for my mood. I wanted to enjoy myself, to put all the adult worries and fears that had accumulated as a result of the past few months on a shelf in the back of my mind. I made every effort to be present with my son and the wondrous amazement that goes along with childhood. Despite myself, though, my new medication regime made the challenge feel far too great.

We circled the outer deck slowly. “Mom, can you take a picture of me up here!” he called as he jumped up on a bench and leaned back as if he was falling. After I snapped that pose I took another of him facing the glass and pretending to be falling forward off the edge.

“Hey, do you want to take a selfie? I asked him, and he willingly obliged.

Every few feet I felt the biting wind rush through the gaps between the thick slabs of glass encircling the deck. He must have felt the wind too because he stopped at one gap and put his face almost parallel to the glass to appreciate how thick it was. He admired it for what seemed like ages before he exclaimed, “it’s 3 pieces of glass all stuck together! Imagine if it wasn’t here at all… We could just fall all the way down.”

“And it would be so much colder and windier up here if there was no glass,” I added, less enthusiastically.

He looked at me as if I was an idiot. Obviously falling to certain death from the top of the Space Needle is a much more interesting complication than worse weather. Evidently, suspending my disbelief for the sake of imaginative fun was only partially possible. To be honest, I was pretty proud of myself for not pointing out that they would have never let us come up to the top if there was no glass in place. Maybe it’s just that Moms are notoriously practical (and cold in the rain, 600 ft in the air).

When we finished on the outer deck, we descended to the floor below to see the rotating glass floor. Despite the mild vertigo inducing sensation, I enjoyed the opportunity to stare down at my feet and breathe deeply as the earth moved beneath me. My son circled around me doing his fancy soccer footwork. “as his made a video of the the moves with the scenery below.”Mom, I’m going to make a cool video of my footwork here.” he told me excitedly. When he was satisfied with his video, we found a place to sit to look outside and have some drinks.

And there it was. The reality of my mood hanging in a cloud of words between us. My shortcomings as a Mother, staring straight at me through the eyes of my 12-year-old son. I thought I was doing a good job of “having fun” with him. Except I didn’t.

I was speechless for a way to explain him what I was struggling with. How do you begin to properly describe to your child the crushing stress and anxiety that comes from an adult life derailed by unexpected health issues? Not to mention discussing with a pre-teen child how that stress and those issues impact your mental health and wellbeing?

I stared straight ahead, through the window and then the thick glass of the observation deck. The dark morning sky was unforgiving in helping to inspire my courage. I let out a deep sigh before I turned at looked back at him.
“I am really happy to be here with you today, and I’m having a wonderful time spending time with you.”
He averted his gaze as if to imply that he didn’t believe me, but nodded his head as I continued.
“You know I’ve been pretty sad about things lately and these new pills I’m taking make it hard to feel some kinds of emotions. It’s kind of like just staying in the middle: Not too happy, not too sad. I don’t know if that makes sense.”

He was quite for a few seconds as he contemplated. He has always been my most sensitive child. Regardless, I wasn’t sure he would say anything. I wanted to fill the silence, to say something positive and upbeat, but then he spoke up: “Yeah, I guess that’s kind of how I was feeling when I started my anxiety pills last year.”

His voice was somewhat nonchalant, like he was talking to one of his friends. His comment sounded casual yet understanding. I was shocked at the insight he was able to find in this moment that was so difficult and emotionally distraught for me to process. “Yeah,” I answered, “the feeling would be just like that.”

He nodded his head forcefully as if to imply that the conversation was over. We sat in silence for a few minutes while we finished our drinks, and for this I was grateful. In those last silent sips of my overpriced Space Needle latte, I decided I was going to make an even greater effort to have fun (or at least a better effort at pretending) on the remainder of our trip.

As I exaggerated the last tilt of my cup upwards to get the final drops of my latte I heard him ask: “Can we go around the deck once more before we leave?”