Picking up my basket
Last couple of days have been kitten-on-crack crazy!
To put it plainly, I dropped my basket. (If you’ve read Divine Secrets of the Ya–Ya Sisterhood you know what I mean by that).
The rift between my son and I, over the most ridiculous matter – fed itself with silence and grew. And grew. And grew.
Yesterday morning had me inelegantly dropping a toaster strudel and it’s plate onto his bed (I’m SO mature) and lead to him leaving without a hug or a goodbye.
So I spent yesterday at work in a daze. Physically ill. A little crying jag at my desk.
My last blog post is staying. It’s exactly how I felt at the time. Drama Queen sash please. And a little crown too?
This parenting stuff is HARD! I would literally give my life for this human that has the ability to mortally wound me with one cutting look.
Bonkers. Teddy Bonkers!
I came home to a boy behind closed-door again. I was so … sad. I crossed the line in the sand (his threshold) and went in.
I’ll spare you and my son all the in-between bits – but at one point I was told (well, technically he wasn’t talking to me, so I was IM’d) the sentence that I had made it almost 18 years without hearing. “I’ll move out as soon as I can”.
Now, I don’t want to stereotype, but I imagine most parents upon hearing that would chuckle to themselves and wish their offspring ‘good luck’, while knowing deep down their birds were not going to actually leap from the nest.
That sentence shot through me like a bullet. My gut suddenly had a brick placed in it. My eyes welled up and I furiously typed back in response to my sons words. (Yeah, we’ve really come to that. Typing to each other).
Fast forward to him cautiously coming out of his room after I fell apart and told him he has never ever, ever been told he had to move out – (man did he play me like a
fiddle xbox!) and we mended our bridge.
I hugged him tight – tears streaming down my face, and I’m gulping air like … I’m not sure what gulps air?? You get the picture. As I sobbed “don’t SAY that – don’t ever SAY that” it dawned on me I was wound around his little finger tighter than unbreakable thread. (It’s apparent to me now that I’m going to need to buy a house … with a basement for my 40-year-old. Because whether he wants to take flight or not – I’m clearly not up to it).
The relief at the disappearance of the tension in the air was palpable.
We both joked and laughed. Then his joking got a little cocky. Then a little rude … and I looked at my almost-a-man boy and asked, with wet cheeks and racoon eyes:
“I thought the flu was going around, not asshole?”