Mothers & Sons ~ As Twisted As It Gets

I’ve done so little in the past week that I had to ask my husband,

“Did I leave the house at all?”

All four movies I watched Saturday were great, providing no incentive to move.

I’m convinced it’s like a bear conserving energy for the days ahead.  Today the girl & I go into NYC to pick up the boy and my life will change for a little while. 

It’s all so bizarre, this adult child thing. Each time he moves I’m suddenly involved in his life again.  On the other hand, the first time he does not ask for my help I will be more devastated than I can even put into print. 

The kid can’t win.

For some unbelievable reason my husband isn’t willing to go into the city at 1:30 in the afternoon and battle traffic when we could have gone in at 7:30 in the evening.  Can you believe he’s so unfeeling about my son’s desire to make it home in time to go to a bar tonight and meet friends? 

Such insensitivity.

For some reason it also bugs the big guy that when we get there (in his truck, the one the boy will use while he’s home) nothing will be packed (before we have to haul it down 11 stories), which will no doubt be the case. 

The boy already verbally agreed that’s how it’ll be.  (He had such an impish grin in his voice and laughing tone.  Really, it was adorable!)

* * * * *

Things I do differently when my oldest child is home:

1.) Bite my tongue way more than usual.  (No harsh voice allowed, no irritation shown, no disagreement.) 

2.) Pretend to make motions toward homemaking activities like cleaning, organizing, laundry, etc.  Sometimes I actually do that stuff. 

(I just spoke to my friend Roxanne today and she was delivering a grilled cheese to the couch for her newly graduated 22-year old.  It’s nearly impossible to compete!  I think there may be private meetings where the guys all get together and say, “Hey, what did you get your mom to do today?” 

“Mine made my bed AND french toast.”

“Mine took money right out of my dad’s wallet for me & spoon-fed me peas!”

“Ah, that’s nothing.  Mine is driving into a city full of several million people with my little sister, in a pick-up truck.  She’ll move all my stuff down 11 stories and pack it up for me while I take my computer apart AND she’ll buy me food on the way home!  All so I can get to the bar on time!”

And then they laugh and laugh!

Young moms shouldn’t feel smug cause they start practicing this shit around age 6 or so.)

3.) I jump to make him special meals with lots of protein, fruits & vegetables.  I will make 100 cups of hot tea in the week to come, filling them with fresh lemon to soothe allergies.  (This does not go over well with husband and daughter, not at all.  It’s like I have a couple of puppies watching me.  Where’s mine?  Mind you, neither of them drink tea or like my cooking.)

4.) Turn my life around to make things convenient for him, break dates with friends & leave all my time free just in case.  (He leaves me hanging, puts everything off to the last second, like I am the “alternative plan,” which no doubt I am.)

5.) Occasionally find my head up my own ass after twisting and maneuvering and accidentally leaving it up there.

6.) Pray every time he gets in the car and drives away.  Worry about where he is and when he’ll be back and whether he’s safe.  (For some reason I am able to let go of this for the most part when he’s living elsewhere.  I am evidently far more afraid of vehicles than guns or muggers or street gangs or swine flu.)

7.) Ask question after question in an attempt to start a conversation, laugh at myself, converse with myself, smile like an idiot preparing to jump from a clown car.  (Those questions do nothing but annoy him, but silence feels even worse, like I’m showing no interest!  I can’t bear the idea that he might think I don’t care.  I’m looking for input from men here — tell me I should just shut up, would you?)

8.) Pick apart every single thing about myself & wonder whether it’s the one tragic piece of my make-up that makes him not like me very much.  (When normal people come to visit I tear the house apart thinking nothing is ever good enough.  When he comes to visit I tear myself apart, thinking nothing is ever good enough.)

Mind you, he says “Love you, Mom” every time we speak.

9.) Try my hardest never to bring up any of the above issues because it only makes it so much worse & removes all question as to whether I’m a complete wack job.

10.) Wonder how it’s possible the above nine items could be true and worry that the 11 year old (whom I have a relatively good relationship with today — just like I did with him) – will be just like him.  (She and I have already agreed that it might be best if we only hug from hereon in, no speaking allowed.  She told me yesterday that she believes “When you turn 50 you die inside and start staring at trees like Daddy.  I turn 49 in one month.)

* * * * *

It sounds so much worse when I put it on paper and I don’t think I’m explaining it all properly.  In person it’s really just a lot of silence on his part and perky paranoia on mine.  I need one other friend who’s had the same experience with an adult son.  Just one! 

Instead, I’m surrounded by people with beautiful babies.  I can’t bear it!  Just today one of my husband’s nieces wrote something about having “me time” and getting her husband to hold the baby while he napped!  How idiotic!  I am going to stop eating sugar & ensure that I do not go blind before I watch her cry that her son is a grown man!  I will love it so!  As she blubbers I will rub it in: “I remember when you wished he was in a crib, sleeping through the night!”  Cause, you know, you can say shit like that when you’re 70 plus!

* * * * *

He will be home for little more than a week, then I will be driving to drop him off at graduate school for a final summer semester.  We will leave early in the morning, really early, because he won’t be willing to go down the night before and stay in a hotel like civilized people, as it adds to the amount of time he must spend with me and cuts back on the time he has with friends. 

If it’s a repeat of last summer he will go out until late, drink more than necessary and want to sleep all the way there.  Then I will help him haul all the stuff out of the car, pack it into the new dorm room, make sure he’s set up and say “I love you!  Be careful!  Maybe you could call once a week, cause ya know I get physically ill when I don’t hear your voice after a while?  Good-bye!”

I will go from there to my sister’s to spend a few more days with the Kentucky peeps.  It seems silly to go again so soon, but I’m already in a southerly direction and it’s only eight hours more.

In a quick two months it will be time to return for graduation and move the boy back to NYC.  The summer will fly by, like it always does.  In eight weeks time I will get four phone calls and an e-mail or two.

This all sounds so incredibly negative & I wish it didn’t.  The boy has no tattoos of grim reapers or Disney characters.  He’s handsome as could be and has a million friends.  I just sent his cousin two letters yesterday addressed to a fucking women’s prison!  Are ya kiddin’ me?

He is perfectly normal and I’m fucked up.

It’s like that Chili’s commercial:

I want my baby back, baby back, baby back.  I want my baby back, baby back, baby back, baby back . . .

Seriously now, I want to hear

What’s your special brand of crazy?