TEENAGERS 2

Tuesday, April 22, 2008

My 16-year-old son claimed to have a study period first thing this morning, so I asked him if he wanted to go to the Pancake House with me for breakfast. He grunted something that seemed to be a “yes,” so that is what we did.

I could’ve called this Pancake 2, as well. Look how I have creative choices here.

We are seated immediately in a booth with springy seats. He does not look at the menu, and proudly denies the coffee offered by the server, pleased a bit to be old enough to look like he drinks coffee. I know he will order sourdough French toast and 2 eggs, over medium. I ponder the menu, even though I too know what I will get. I don’t have that bold no-look thing down yet.

I look at him, across from me. I have been told a few times that he reminds people of a young Jimmy Page, all long-haired and lithe with an evil, devastating, $6000-in-braces smile. I see it. I also see the five-year-old in him, the baby. It is all still there. My little 5’10” science experiment smirks at me, and I smirk back.

Because it is in my contract, I bring up school and college visits and MATH and blather on responsibly. I keep it to a minimum because I see him tense, and hear a sharpness to his replies. I know he has heard me a million times over, all this crap. So I stop. There aren’t all that many teenage boys that will want to spend any amount of time with their mothers, even a kickass mom like me, so I will make the time pleasant. A familiar bass line comes over the Pancake House speakers, Michael Jackson’s “Billie Jean.” Son looks to me, slowly grins, and we go HEE HEE and make our hands dance and go up on their toes. We determine, as we wait for our plates to arrive, that:

  • Vitiligo does not repigment DNA;
  • The kid was never going to be his son, because, of well, you know;
  • Someday those three fake-genetic children will mutiny, and it will go something like this: YOU NAMED ME BLANKET, SMOTHERED MY FACE IN ARABIAN SCARVES, AND HUNG ME OVER A BALCONY, YOU SKELETAL DEMENTED MONSTER! LET ME OUT! I AM TIRED OF SHARING A CRIB WITH A RHESUS MONKEY! I AM 25 FUCKING YEARS OLD!
We snicker, and eat our food, and Son says I eat too slowly and do I want to finish his eggs because he is full. I decline, and suck up my second cup of coffee, in case the “study period” was really “a major test that counts for 50% of the grade.” Before we leave, as I pull the venerable VISA out of my purse to pay, Son imagines his future to me aloud, as a 27-year-old who marries a rich professional 35-year-old woman, and stays home and plays poker and makes eggs for their kids. I tell him best of luck with that, and he smiles that wide Page-smile with the squinty almond eyes, and I smile back as I shake my head. The opportunity is quickly closing that we will have many more mornings to discuss eggs, bizarre celebrities, and just a little bit of math.

Damn you, Neil Young. You made me cry.

Oh, to live on Sugar Mountain
With the barkers and the colored balloons,
You can’t be twenty on Sugar Mountain
Though you’re thinking that you’re leaving there too soon,
You’re leaving there too soon.