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