There was no need to acknowledge it. We were both sitting mere inches away from it. The tube of lotion sat out clearly on the coffee table. The pretty shade of pink in high contrast to the dark brown, glossy finish of the table. There might as well have been a hole in the ceiling with a shaft of light from the heavens spotlighting the fragrant container.
"Zhanna left her lotion here."
"Yeah, she did."
And tomorrow's headline will read, "In a desperate attempt to make conversation with her teenage son, Karen Rinehart makes an obvious statement."
We'd had the house to ourselves, my teenage son and I, for the past 40 hours, 17 minutes and 52 seconds. Somewhere, at this very moment, in NYC, my husband and daughter were braving the cold winds to bond (and shop, eat, see plays, shop and shop some more) during their first ever Daddy-Daughter Weekend. My son and I think this should become a monthly event. Or weekly.
My daughter is 14. Her moods vary like the attention span of our miniature dachshund. Her brother, frankly, does not miss her. No bickering over the last doughnut, possession of the remote control, whose turn it is to feed the dogs or use the computer.
My view on this gig when my husband announced he bought the plane tickets? (Besides, "Holy cats! The man opened his wallet!!!) What a perfect opportunity to have what might be my last, personal, quiet, cozy alone time with my college bound son. My baby boy will be leaving for school this fall and I'm trying to take advantage of our time together. And figure out how I am possibly grown up enough to be in the position to be thinking such things.
I imagined all we could do over the long weekend together — watch movies, play pool, research college scholarships, stand on street corners and beg for college funding, order Chinese delivery, build roaring fires in the fireplace, check the tire pressure on our cars, peruse old photo albums, clean out from under his bed, organize his closet, rearrange furniture, walk the dogs and peruse old photo albums with his girlfriend.
So far, in the two waking hours he's actually been home, we managed to move two chairs to another room and locate the tire gauge. Wait! Hang on one incredible second! My son just walked in the door. With his girlfriend. And he's speaking to me…. "What? Really? You want to know where to find our photo album from 1998?"
Be still my heart!
