My Nest is Half Full, Never Empty

My son got a job at a non-profit organization out in Texas. I am jealous; Austin, Texas seems like the coolest place for young people like him – the arts, the music, the progressive students and citizens of Austin who proudly live up to their mantra, i.e., “Keep Austin weird.” 

He is leaving for another chapter in his young life.  Four years ago I was distraught and unable to let go, but this time, “YES!”

In between the going -away- to- college and coming home for a gap year that easily became 1.5 years, he tried living on his own with other friends who were also living on their own.  After less than a year, every one decided to either move back to Mom and Dad’s or move away to pursue other things outside of the posse.  He did not want to live by himself and so we told him to move back home.  He worked retail,  got burned out and told his manager to stick it up, found another job selling fine wine by stating on his interview, “I am your man.  I have worked in retail and I love beer.”  “What do you know about wine?” “None, but my parents buy cases of wine.”  “What is your favorite beer?” “I am a poor kid, I drink Pabst Light.”  “Okay,  when can you start?”

In the home front, the cat’s tail starts to quiver after the leap of excitement of going into the “boy’s room.” The cat looks at me as if to ask, “Why don’t you Febreeze the shit out of this room, jeez!?”  I find all kinds of interesting things in that room: threats of termination of phone bill, brand new shoes, clothes with tags still on them, restaurant receipts (really? I don’t even spend that much on my own lunch), a thank you note for his donation from a charity to save children in Asia, books he bought, poems he had written.  “Mom, I will get it paid, don’t worry I will pay it.” “Son, I  know you have cash in an envelope in your backpack and you do not pay your bill with cash. You put the money in the bank. If the cash is in your backpack, the bill will never get paid.  I know exactly how much you have so I am not lying when I tell you I spy on you. That is my job. "  “I know that you drank wine. I saw the corkscrew in your backpack. So don’t even try to tell me you are not drinking. I am not an idiot. I was young once.” By October, I will no longer have a diversion; my Magnum, PI days are over.  No one will go into his apartment and grimace at the mess, stating unequivocally, "This is a pig stye. I raised you better than this! The Marines will not want to touch this."

I will no longer have to deal with the heavy footsteps on the stairs past midnight, doors turned noisily, shower that goes on for a full hour, laptop and dirty laundry on the floor that terrify the cats, and a phantom who eats half of a freshly cooked pot of gumbo. I am going to be free from losing my hearing when he plays his music in the car, free from the "face" when I go over my litany of my expectations. I am free from repeating myself too often echoing what my Mom used to say to me, "This is not in my interest, you are not doing me a favor by doing what I say. Your attitude is disrespectful; let us exchange roles, you be the mother and I will be your daughter. Don’t pretend to be deaf.  You are not going to school to learn to be disrespectful.  Ayusin mo sagot mo.”

Eyes downcast, not allowed to look her in the eyes,  I would think “I have to run away from this.  This woman is controlling my life.”  Then I would hear, “Go and sit down and eat  your dinner.” Then I realize she has cooked my favorite food as if to soften the sting of the  “sermon.”

In my arsenal is my Blackberry and texting technology.  I realize that I can yell and scream via text by my copious use of exclamation and question marks.   I will be the first to admit that I text like a mad woman to my son and I make so many mistakes but I just plow through without trying to fix my mistakes  lest my train of thought go asunder:

“Hey, I know you prefer the company of your friend’s parents than us but it is my and Dad’s job to guide u and some, so,  I want u to be homeless one evening this week to discuss abt something important.  I meaan, I cannot be texting you’re a full dissertation.  this is very frustrating becoz you do not respond.  When you move out of the way, omg, I hate texting on this Bberry, ok, away that’s it - I won’t be texting you to remind you to brush your teeth, mind your hygiene, always mindful of  manners. Heyy  no deaths, no babies, no jail, no stupid choices, be punctuation punctual!!  In other words, you are on your own buddy.  Respond so I know you read this.  This is very fiddicult and I hate Bberry. Respondentxxxx respond!!”

Response: Love you, Mom.

“This is what I mean! I am ranting and raving and all I get is “I love you Mom” You need to come home so we can talk in person.” Oy Vey! Answer me!!! Where are you? Are you in an alley dying?”

The screen goes dark.  The light goes out.  The cat starts to snore and you hope for the best.

6:00am you wake up and the device is buzzing: “Ma,  I am crashing at  Alex’ haha.”  It was sent to you when your device has logged out for the night.  Oh the joy.

This I know to be the truth about men: They fearlessly  jump off airplanes, or bungee jump from some bridge in Tibet but don’t tell their Mom, Inay, Mama, Mami, Nanay, Inang, Maman, or Ane.   I know guys aged 28 and double that age  who would say,  "I cannot do that; it will kill my mom. Or worse, she will kill me."

So when all else fails, there is the "Fear the Mom."