You Never Forget the First Time Your Son Makes You Dinner
Tonight I came home and listened to my youngest son, 9-year-old Mr. T, tell me he how he is now on the flag football team. However, his brother, 12-year-old Mr. O, was quieter about his day.
Yes, it was good. Yes, he finished all his homework, but can you sign this paper for me?
I could do that. As fried as my brain was, I didn't know if I could do much else, but I could do that.
I also drank three cans of my equivalent of hard liquor, Coke Zero, mentally mulled over my to-do list, and found myself wishing I could watch the Godfather.
Mr. O brought me back to reality. "How was your day, mom?" he asked.
I regaled him with tales of my inadvertent three-mile walk to work. After waiting 20 minutes at a bus stop and seeing no bus, my trying-to-be-eco-friendly behind got fed up and decided to hoof it. Hot, sweaty messness.
And then I went into my room. I needed some hibernation time--men aren't the only one who need to go into a cave sometimes. I ended up talking--because chatting online is talking, right?--with a friend I've known for 21 years.
I didn't even notice that neither of my sons had asked me about food. Indeed, not one peep of "I'm hungry. What's for dinner?" at all. Usually that's on repeat until the food arrives on the table. But I was so distracted, I didn't notice. And I wasn't particularly hungry anyway.
At least, I wasn't until my son, shyly holding a plate of food, arrived in my room. He'd made dinner: pasta, salad, and steamed broccoli.
And it was really good. I teased him that he was going to ditch his dreams of being a marine biologist in favor of opening a fancy restaurant. And then I gave him a long hug. Squeezed him extra tight.
I got a little teary-eyed--what a moment of pure love and sweetness. I've fed him his whole life, and here he, is learning to fly free. And that's the way it should be.