The Boy, as I refer to my One and Only Son, thinks his rent money doesn’t go far enough. Given that he lives with me, I have to agree with him. It doesn’t.
For some reason, he believes, in that grinning way that the well-loved son has, that there should be perks beyond a roof, internet, and full access to the fridge.
“Mom,” he says the other day, “You forgot to fix my bed.”
Then he laughs and scratches my head, a common gesture in our home of thick-haired (and possibly thick-headed) folk.
It’s hard to keep your hands off your children, impossible for me to pass by him without pulling his hair gently, scratching him behind the ears, or putting a hand on his shoulder. He will lean his back against my hand with an imperious command: “Scratch.” I do, of course. Not only because he’s my boy and I love him, but because I appreciate the gleam in his eye when he says it: a request couched in a demand and wrapped in the knowledge that I would do it anyway, whether he asked for it or not.
I did it to myself.
17 hours ago