It was a good day. The old truck, the vehicle we let the 17 year old Boy use, was in the mechanic’s shop.
Oh? You might ask. How is that a good thing?
Well, for one, the work that was being done was under warranty, so there would be no bill when we picked it up. Two, it meant that son was hanging out with us for two days straight. That’s a lot of Son time. AND. It had been going more or less swimmingly. He was fun, sweet even.
So, we’re in the car together and I’m driving him somewhere and he’s telling me a few highlights from these great escapade months of his last summer as a non-adult. (Thanks Maureen for this post that helped me to see the positive side of my chauffeur years).
I decide, he’s not got that defensive wall up and seems in a generous mood, perhaps I can give some serious mom advice.
I proceed to tell him about treating girls with respect, you get the picture, right?
The Boy seems to be listening and does not interrupt. When I am finished he turns to me and says, “You and Dad sure give opposite advice.”
“Why, what did your dad tell you?”
“Dad told me I should get with as many girls as possible before I settle down. Enjoy my youth and my freedom.”
“Dad WOULD NOT tell you that!”
Yet, why inside do I feel the need to transport myself across the island and get in my husband’s face and ask him? Perhaps slap him?
The Boy shrugs. “Ask him yourself.”
When I see my husband the next morning and ask him, his eyebrow arches and he stops what he is doing to stare at me.
“I DID NOT say that. The kid was just messing with you, probably because he wanted you to change the subject.”
I stare into this man’s eyes, because, albeit Son is a smartass and loves to mess with people, I don’t trust that most men wouldn’t love to see their sons score all the chickadees they wished they had when they were young.
A few days later and the truck comes out of the shop (if your vehicle is not finished by Saturday morning, it gets to have a two day sleepover partay with the other cars until Monday).
As the boy readies to leave (packing a backpack in the house) and his father piddles with the truck in the garage (checking on the engine and the handiwork of the mechanic) I proceed to try and talk to my son about peer pressure. How, even though HE may not do drugs or drink alcohol, he needs to make sure no one he gives a ride to is packing anything illicit or else, should he get pulled over, as the driver he may get penalized for his passengers’ indiscretions.
The Boy looks up at me and says, “That’s not the advice Dad gave me.”
“I’m not falling for that again.”
The Boy shrugs.
It’s like a disease. I can’t help myself.
“OK Mister. What are you going to tell me your dad said?”
“He said never to drink or smoke weed when I’m driving, never to do them together, and other than that, it’s OK, as long as I don’t get caught.”
Husband comes in while I’m yelling at the kid about his asshattery.
Husband smiles because he likes it when it is me yelling at The Boy instead of him.
Husband hears the phrase “quit throwing your dad under the bus to distract me every time I try to have a serious talk with you.”
Husband interrupts with, “Hey?! What?”
I tell him, “The Boy said you told him it is OK to drink or smoke weed as long as he is not driving and as long as he does not get caught.”
Husband shakes his head, turns away so I don’t see him cracking up, and says, “Quit yanking your mom’s chain dude.”
Ten minutes later I am sitting on the couch, watching the news, and letting my angry fumes slowly smolder around me.
Son, somewhat contrite, sits down next to me and pretends to watch the news. He puts his arm around my shoulder, pats my head, and says, “Love you mom.”
I decide this is as good as time as any to cast the MOTHER’S CURSE on him.
“I hope you have a kid that turns out exactly like you when you grow up.”
The frickken kid looks me in the eye, breaks into a ginormous grin, and says, “That’d be awesome.”
Yeah, we'll see.