There are a million ways to break a mother's heart. One way is to send a text message, three days after you have moved into your first place away from home, that says, "Reeeally miss your home cooking about now!" I picture my already thin, almost 21 year old son--in whom I have tried to inculcate some basic cooking skills and nutritional knowledge--coming home from his physically demanding summer landscaping job hot and exhausted and without a clue (despite everything) where to start in on preparing a good dinner for himself, and thus wasting away. Maybe missing his mother a little. Maybe. I asked him what was for dinner at his place and he told me quesadillas, which is the one thing he makes well but with alarming frequency, and he doesn't take the time to make a fresh salsa with lots of veggies to go on top like I do, even though he is a kid who always eats his veggies. I told him he could come for dinner any time he wanted. And that I miss his smile. He texted back, "I miss yours too." And thus begins our adventure in becoming a mother who learns how to give space for growth, and a man who learns how to live on his own. We'll both survive. But there is going to be some heartache for awhile, I'm telling you, especially when we sit down to eat and he's not there. My heart physically hurts a little since a big piece of it moved across town, and my eyes have been springing leaks in my more contemplative moments. (Photo: ANdy at 5 or 6, helping me in the vegetable garden. He still has the same smile.)
There are a million ways to break a mother's heart. One way is to send a text message, three days after you have moved into your first place away from home, that says, "Reeeally miss your home cooking about now!" I picture my already thin, almost 21 year old son--in whom I have tried to inculcate some basic cooking skills and nutritional knowledge--coming home from his physically demanding summer landscaping job hot and exhausted and without a clue (despite everything) where to start in on preparing a good dinner for himself, and thus wasting away. Maybe missing his mother a little. Maybe. I asked him what was for dinner at his place and he told me quesadillas, which is the one thing he makes well but with alarming frequency, and he doesn't take the time to make a fresh salsa with lots of veggies to go on top like I do, even though he is a kid who always eats his veggies. I told him he could come for dinner any time he wanted. And that I miss his smile. He texted back, "I miss yours too." And thus begins our adventure in becoming a mother who learns how to give space for growth, and a man who learns how to live on his own. We'll both survive. But there is going to be some heartache for awhile, I'm telling you, especially when we sit down to eat and he's not there. My heart physically hurts a little since a big piece of it moved across town, and my eyes have been springing leaks in my more contemplative moments. (Photo: ANdy at 5 or 6, helping me in the vegetable garden. He still has the same smile.)
Comments
I understand your post completely and utterly. Hard times.
It's a mess later. Keep your distance.