It’s always a holiday when Michael comes home to visit. He’s just made a major step of separating from a full time job at Temple University to working at several part time jobs plus his drawing career: City Line Drawings.
He’ll be here for a day and a night; however, because of his new schedule he’ll be able to visit more often.
There’s this little restaurant near here called The Brass Pelican. It’s in the middle of a forest and is closing soon, so we’ll go there tomorrow night.
One time I was trying to find a good quotation about sons and mothers. I always go to BrainyQuote to find the best ones. I found one attributed to a Greek philosopher whose name I can’t remember; but the quote was something about sons being the anchors of a mother’s life. I can agree with this just so far because my husband and a few treasured friends also act as anchors for me. However, I was remembering yesterday when Michael was born and the first time I looked at him and he looked at me. There was a once in a lifetime split second when I thought: Oh thank God, you’re actually here! I’ve been waiting for you. And he was probably thinking: so you’re the one whose voice I kept hearing!
Michael and I had something between us that is impossible to put into words. But I keep trying…he used to say to me: I’m glad you’re not one of those silly mothers. Yes, we adored each other but it wasn’t overly sloppy. I wasn’t what people are now calling a “helicopter mother.” I was a football coach, sort of. I told him the rules, made sure he had what he needed, never left the field. I was always there to tell him he had done well, but I was always there to give minor lectures if he veered off course. Where did this odd form of “mothering” come from? Who knows the answers to such questions? All I know is that I love my son and can’t wait to see him.
lgmwriting 