It is 7:20 a.m. as she stares incredulously at the human being descending the stairs as if he has weights on his feet. Could he truly have come from her womb, this silent human who slithers about the house, fuels up from the GE refrigerator, and drops word bombs that send his siblings crying from the room?
Is it true that at one point in his life, she taught him to talk and walk, feed himself, use the toilet, say please and thank-you? How is it that he now speaks foreign words and slouches around autonomously? Reminders of designated chores, curfews, and homework are met with vile responses like “Don’t be so cringe! Why aren’t you dope like Martin’s mom?” among some of the more repeatable phrases.
Cringe? Dope? Yes! You just made me cringe, and yes, I feel like a dope trying to have a conversation with you!
It is 7:25 a.m. and he rummages through the pantry, grumbling inaudible tones under his breath. Her eyes bore into him, trying to imagine the feeling of his swaddled body against her neck, followed by his sticky peanut-butter-and-grape-jelly hand in hers, and those wet, sloppy, toddler kisses he slathered on her face. Did he really used to cry when she would leave the room?
She follows him as he lugs his body through the kitchen. Her view becomes purple boxer shorts barely hiding his bum, his head swallowed by the refrigerator. As hard as she tries, she cannot trace the transformation of her sweet little boy into this . . . this rude stranger. When did the dreaded evolution occur, or more appropriately, the digression?
It is 7:30 a.m. and her eyes follow him as he ascends the staircase, two steps at a time.
It is 7:40 a.m., five minutes after the agreed-upon time, when the front door slams shut and he is sucked into a gray Toyota that speeds away, the offspring of the dope mom behind the wheel.
“Bye! Have a nice day. Love you too!” floats through the empty air followed by a sigh and eye-roll.
The betrayal makes her feel alone and cold and heart sick.
It is 3:15 p.m. when she runs through the parking lot and into the emergency room entrance. She waits impatiently until a nurse escorts her through the double doors. “Third curtain on the right.”
It is 3:15 p.m. and behind the third curtain on the right a sixteen-year-old boy is asking for his mom.
2 Responses
Having helped raise 2 wonderful sons this story rings so true and tugs hard at my heart strings. For my boys, having a father always around and taking an active interest in everything they did was essential in helping them become the great men they are but the almost magical influence of a loving and caring mother is something that always overpowers ever other influence in their lives and lasts forever.
Great job, Donna.
Thanks, Larry! I always appreciate your comments.