It’s baseball season again. My Son plays second base. He loves everything about baseball. It’s been too cold and miserable for me to go to a game. I’m interested and supportive from the couch until it warms up.
I picked him up from practice the other day. His sister was in Paris and Mr. Wonderful had to go to the Radio/Television Correspondents Dinner. (My answer to that was “NO.” Repeat as necessary.)
So number only son and I were on our own. His campaign started immediately upon clamoring into the car. “What’s for dinner?”
“Healthy food” I told him. I love to make him suffer. It gets him EVERY TIME.
“Mom, just this one time in my entire life, could we please go to Kentucky Fried Chicken for dinner? It won’t kill you to eat fried food.”
He was breaking the sound barrier, we went for a fried yuck dinner. Blerg. I don’t like to eat anything that has fingers in the description. Even if it is chicken, dipped in grease and then blowtorched. It really made him happy.
“So where have your buddies J and E been lately?” I asked my Son. “They haven’t been around the house in a month.”
He stopped shoveling in food for a minute to look at me, unusual behavior during meals. Then he said, “Both of them have started smoking pot. I figured it was better to just back off for awhile.”
I sat there and wondered what I should say. For once in my life I just ate my chicken fingers.
“That’s right where I’d be Mom,” my Son continued, “if you weren’t up my butt every minute of every day. In case you were wondering if it was a good idea to be home with me.” Then he noogied my head and played the radio at migraine level on the ride home. Discussion over. Glad I was there. I think we were having a moment.
All my friends have been having big job successes lately. Making partner, getting the big promotion, scoring the big bucks.
I miss it, sometimes. Having something interesting to say. Plus, working at CNN was fun in a miserable, stressful, heartbreaking way (you don't cover good news). And there was tons o cash. Oh well.....
He graduates in two years. I think I’ll let my employability atrophy for the duration. I might miss fried fingers with head noogie dessert.