This weekend son came to visit the Philly house.
I have not seen son since Christmas, you know now that he is 22 years old and all, he is very busy.
Son arrives late Friday night. We are watching CNN. I tell him, “You would make a good newscaster.”
“No, I wouldn’t.” he says.
“I think you would.” I say.
“Why?” he asks. “Because of the collared shirts and good hair?”
“Yes!” I say. “You look just like those guys!”
I think a moment.
“I guess except for the having to talk part.” I say.
Son does not like to talk. Or be touched. In fact, I keep trying to touch him and he keeps moving away as if he might be burned. One might even say he recoils. He actually assembles a pillow blockade between us on the couch.
“Geez.” I say.
I notice on the coffee table there is a large set of keys, complete with carabineer. “Are these Harley Davidson keys yours?” I ask Mr. Collared Shirt.
“Yes.” he says.
“Do you really need a giant clip like this?” I ask.
“Yes.” he says.
Some things about son do not make sense reader. This is one of them.
Next day comes and son and daughter sleep until noon. When they emerge from their young adult caves I tell them, “We are going to the co-op.”
When we get to the co-op CUTE GUY is working. Cute Guy has not been there the last few times we went shopping. However, the last time he WAS there daughter was going to give him her number via MOM going back in and delivering it. Except MOM did not wish to do so.
We are carrying the boxes to the car. Son tells me not to sour his goodwill. I can’t even remember why he says this. I just feel you, reader, should know he actually speaks like this.
Daughter writes her number on a piece of paper and gives it to me.
“Oh ALLRIGHT!” I say. And I go back in and give Cute Guy the paper.
I say, “My daughter would like you to have this.”
He smiles and puts the piece of paper in his pocket.
Ok, yes, I am slightly mortified.
We drive home. We put the groceries away. Son begins the son food-festing right away by cooking pasta. Then, as daughter and he play various card games, he polishes off two very large bowls of pasta.
It is now 3pm.
“You know we are going out to eat at six, right?” I say.
“And you are going to be hungry by then?” I ask.
“Ok.” I say.
As I watch him eat I am thrown back to days of yore with son’s face in the dog bowl, shovel in hand. I used to have to hide food from him.
Now daughter is beating son at their card game. Somehow son picks up a pen to draw on daughter. Daughter says, “Don’t draw on me or I will have to beat you up again.”
This is funny, but also true. Daughter did used to take advantage of son’s good graces. For all the times she hauled off and smacked him, I do not think he ever hit her back.
Soon it is time for the VISIT TALK. Son and I go outside for this little chat. The VISIT TALK is where we sit alone and I ask him questions. And sometimes he gets on a roll and shares different things with me. Since he is newly working full time, most of our conversation revolves around his new job and schedule.
“I think you seem happy son.”
Son says, “It is better than being unemployed.”
Later, we watch THE METS. Some kind of good play happens for the other fairly young team. I of course, curse the other team and their newness. But Philly and son are singing the opposing team praises. Philly always does this. And now Mr. Fair is here to back him up.
Mr. Fair tells me, “It is not right to discriminate against a team just because they are new.”
“I don’t care!” I say.
“The Mets were new once.” he says.
“Listen, that was a long time ago.” I say.
I am then called the Donald Trump of baseball.
I decide not to say anything else.
I go to bed.
Next day is Easter. Son has promised to be up by 10AM to make me a bunny pancake since he refused to do an egg hunt, now that he is so old and all.
I even offered to stuff the eggs with money. MONEY. Who turns down money?
I have advised both of the children to set their alarms for 10AM. Daughter wakes up. Son does not. I send daughter to go fetch son. “Go wake up your brother.” I say.
Daughter walks up the stairs and bangs on his door. “Wake up!” she says.
Son grumbles, “I will.”
Daughter says, “No, not you will. NOW!”
Ok, yes, I love her.
And…the pancake making begins. It is son’s specialty. Son makes a whole big bunch of silver dollar pancakes. And one big bunny pancake, which he PROMISED to make for me.
Philly is impressed. “You are pretty good at this!” he says.
We eat. Daughter and I have a little sunny yard time while the boys watch baseball inside. And then, just that fast, it is time to drive son to the bus back to Brooklyn. On the way over daughter tries to hold son’s hand. But, he will not let even DAUGHTER touch him.
“What the hell?” she says.
AND on the way in the car son just happens to mention he is playing soccer now. The whole car is like, WAIT, WHAT?
We have had an entire weekend visit with him and there was nary a mention of this new endeavor. And then here it is. Just like that.
I say, “We have had an entire weekend visit with you and there was nary a mention of this new endeavor.”
Son shrugs this off.
We arrive at the bus station. I decide I will walk son into the bus station. I used to stay for a while, but this time I get as much of a hug as I can get and I am on my way, with a little encouragement.
And off he goes.
“See you soon son.” I say.
See you soon.