“Three and a half hours? Are you sure that’s right? I don’t recall it being that long of a drive.” I yelled down to my son.
“That’s what it says on my iPod. Well, 3 hours and 27 minutes.” He replied.
We loaded up the car, or he did. I stood in my bathroom fixing my hair for the third time in less than an hour. He came up the stairs to grab my things and gave me that puzzled look men get. It’s the look that says, “You really need a suitcase for a 24 hour trip?” and then the poor guy picks up said suitcase and wonders what in the name of all that is good and holy could you possibly have packed that weighs 100+ pounds. The answer, as we all know, is
the body parts you couldn’t dispose of in town 3 complete outfits with shoes, pajamas, jewelry, hair product, makeup, a curl iron, a flat iron, and a blow dryer.
He shook his head and hoisted it off the edge of the bed, letting it drop to the floor with an exaggerated pull on his shoulder. “Are you almost ready? Did you call Dad and tell him you’re taking me all the way to Linette’s? He’s supposed to be picking me up in Sioux City ya know?” he rattled on as he drug my belongings down the flight of stairs, letting each step feel the impact of my exceptional lack of ability to make clothing decisions. “It’s handled. Don’t worry about it and don’t do that with my suitcase…” I said as I heard him exiting the house. I swear I heard a curse word or twelve and some mumbling about how I should either learn to pack or haul my own crap.
Being a single mom hasn’t been the best gig in the world. There are times when I wanted to pull out my hair, drink myself into a stupor, and crawl under the blankets and cry. To be perfectly honest, some days I am quite surprised my kids even acknowledge me at all. I’ve made every single mistake in the book short of illegal activities. I mean it’s not like I kick back on the sofa with my crack pipe and invite men over to help momma pay the bills. That’s really only a summer past time.
I do what I can to make up for those past mistakes, for my son especially. Today is one of those days. Statistically he’s got 2 possible directions to go with women in his life.
1. Just like dear old Mom
2. Some skanky hooker
The goal of these little mother-son road trips is to help him better understand women. We complain together about the condition of the roads, we talk about the lyrics of the music we’re listening to, about school, about how to properly use ‘that’s what she said’, why I can’t listen to Come On Eileen without my head nodding or my feet tapping, and why his “dirt stache” needs to be shaved off. For the mustache thing, I’ve passed on the advice Bill recommended, “Girls don’t give snatches to boys with dirt ‘staches.”
The miles slip by more quickly when I have him at the wheel. It won’t be long and he will be driving his own car (he’s test driving a car with his father tonight) and I will be back to transporting my own ass back and forth. I will lose these little opportunities to teach him what it means to be a good man, how to handle himself when a cranky woman yells at him he makes a bonehead move like almost getting yourselves killed on the interstate, and what music is good music. We still have today, thirty more minutes to be exact. Besides, there is a hot guy in a Uhaul following us and I’m pretty sure he just gave me “the look”. I need to get in the backseat and flash him my… wait… that might be one of those bad decisions, right?
FINE! Fun haters.
For the parents out there, what are your fondest teaching moments with your kids?
Those of you not yet in the parent pool, what’s your happiest memory with your parent(s)?