A Mother's Child
During a recent Chicago trip my son mimicked his daughtersaying, “Dad, you’re so lame!” I wassomewhat taken aback upon hearing his imitation. “You think she really feels that way?” Iasked.
“For sure, what do I know,” he replied continuing hismimicry.
That made me think about our children in generationalterms. The following hypothetical scenariomight be perceived quite differently by members of three generations:
David excitedly announces to his family: “I just got invited to throw the first pitch out for a White Sox game because of my therapy work with some of their players.”
Daughter’s reaction- “Huh?” she responds in a distracted tone barely glancing up to make eyecontact. When she finally does, the glazed-overlook in her eyes clearly betrays her disinterest in this achievement. She has bigger fish to fry. She and friends are staying after pre-schoolfor Lunch Bunch tomorrow and she is weighing her clothing and foodoptions.
Wife- “That’s nice. What’s the date?” she asks reaching for hercolor-coded calendar dreading trying to fit in yet another appointment. Her day planner resembles a work of artresplendent with colorful neon notes consuming entire day blocks. “Nope, I’vegot clients that day and a Parent-Teacher conference that night. You know you should really be there too. Our family and our income are more importantthan a ceremonial gig for work you have already done and been paid for.” Muttering under her breath, “He can be soself involved sometimes. So what, hegave four days one week to counseling the Sox. I’m a Cubs fan, what do I care about the White Sox?”
Mother- “What?!!! Seriously?!!!” she exclaims during aFaceTime exchange. “That is totally cool. “Can I come?” she pleads already clicking onher Southwest App to book a flight. “Ann and John have the baseball package onSpectrum. I’ll make sure they watch theSox-Orioles game that day. “Susan lovesbaseball, maybe I’ll have her come with me. I want to get plenty of pics to post onFacebook and Instagram. I’m so proud ofyou, David.”
When my son was born a friend told me moms tend to think their sons’ shit doesn’t stink. This line became family lore when David was younger. “Now don’t go thinking your poop doesn’t stink, because it does,” I would counsel. “No, mom, I promise it doesn’t,” he would protest. There actually may be some truth to the adage, as more than a few moms I know are raptly receptive to stories and accomplishments shared by their children (sons and daughters). It makes me think we will always have a part to play in the lives of our children, even if it is just as lead cheerleader (no wonder in-laws resent us!).
