This is for the big one, the 11 yr old. He’s had more time to rack up reasons, although I love them all EXACTLY EQUALLY THE SAME. (Hey, they may read this someday…you never know.)
This morning, it was my turn to stumble blindly, un-caffeinated, feeling my way towards the minivan, (I don’t see well before caffeine) to run him to camp. We’d had the Bowling permission slip fiasco already…you know, the one where you carefully fill the important document out in a timely fashion, only to lose it on the actual day it needs to be turned in.
And we had the whole ‘Hmmm better make a quick lunch in the morning’ moment, because SOMEBODY was too busy on Twitter last night to insure her child had a healthy nutritious peanut butter bar ready to go.
So we already knew he was going to be late- 20 minutes or so, by my guesstimation. Which is great, because it makes Camp feel Just Like School!
As we’re leaving, he says, “Hold on-” and runs into the house to gather yet another thing we neglected to remember. I wait, somewhat impatient, but mostly resigned to our fate. I’m comfortable being the late mom. Shoot, after 11 years, I’d better be.
He runs out of the house and launches himself into the passenger seat. He’s tall, so he can do that. He tosses a CD into the dash, and says, with great authority, “Track 6.”
I oblige, using my handy dandy steering wheel music changer thingy (still feels like magic.)
And I hear the opening flute of the Beastie Boy’s “Sure Shot“.
I think of all the times I’ve heard the same flute, braced my body for the bass to kick in. I remember driving alone, as a young wild girl, and cranking the volume at the precise moment to get the full effect. And I watch J reach over at the exact proper moment, to ratchet it up a notch, to feel the bass in his bones.
And I had to grin. Cruising down the road with my boy, both of our heads bobbing in time to, “Because you can’t…you won’t…and you don’t…Stop…” I felt a fierce love for the person he’s becoming. Not the one I made, but the one he’s forging. The one I like to hang out with. Something’s going right in this momming gig, cause this kid has got his priorities straight. Now, dear God, please just get us through adolescence.
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