Dear Son

Dear Son,

I want to apologize for that time when you were 14 and I drove you and your friends to the mall wearing one of your old Fruit of the Loom whitie tightie brief’s waistband as my ponytail holder.  But more importantly, that I actually escorted you all into the mall (because that’s what a responsible mother of a 14 year old does) wearing one of your old Fruit of the Loom whitie tightie brief’s waistband as my ponytail holder. I swear I didn’t do that intentionally to punish you for anything.  Unlike the time I showed up at school and made you clean out your locker during class changes while I introduced myself to all your peers. You had that one coming. But hey, to this day you now turn in your homework and turn it in promptly. You’re welcome.

Anyhow, I risk humiliation in reminding you of that scenario in hopes that someday, in what seems like the not too distant future, when your own son comes to you complaining about how I, his Grandma embarrassed him public…I mean, you’ll be able to relate at least a little. And I want you and your kids to be able to talk, relate to one another and at least be respectful of the other like you and I are.  We don’t always understand each other and our decisions (duh) but a major dose of respect and humor has always served us well. I wonder how many other mothers my age have their need for Depends tested on a daily basis by their son’s hilarity and company?

And what about all our little daily inside jokes and secrets that have secured a sweet if not at times conspiratorial mother-son bond? (Or maybe bribery is the word?) You know, Dr. Cox Hands, mayonnaise, buhhhh-ter, my secret emergency chocolate stash, frosty Miller High Life and our stash of on-line Miller High Life product points, being the lone household coffee addicts, haircut battles — as in, me coolly, strategically standing in the line of fire between you and your father until divorce in imminent and I blow the dust off my scissors or dial Natasha’s salon and shove the phone in your hand –I mean, I’ve sacrificed a lot for you and gone to bat for you over these past 21 years but a girl has her limits, Boy!

Anyhow, I guess I’m getting all nostalgic as you finish your last semester at home and have applied to transfer to State this fall. Are you sure you don’t want to stay local and live at home for your last two years? How about graduate school? Think about it—you’re sister’s leaving so you won’t have to share the car or pantry space with her.  And thanks to the new health care bill, you can stay on our insurance plan until you’re 26 — that’s enough time to get your Master’s degree and find a job with your own benefits. And speaking of benefits, don’t forget the well-stocked refrigerator, your own private bathroom, satellite TV and unlimited supply of adoration from the dog.

My dear, sweet, brilliant son of whom I am so proud — you know I want what’s best for you — even if it means you moving out and making me an Empty Nester before I’m ready. I mean it. I do.

But please don’t.

Subscribe to CE
(It's free)

Go to Catholic Exchange homepage