I carry a Mom Bag. It is large and pocketless and zips closed, so that when we go to New York, I can take it on the subway and not worry about something getting stolen out of it. Upon reflection, however, I realize that were anyone to try to swipe something out of it, or just take the whole thing, they would be really disappointed. There's nothing in there that's of any value to anyone but me. Sure, there are credit cards. But those can be cancelled immediately. My driver's license? Ok, if you're into broads with purple glasses and extra chins, and would like to be an organ donor, have at it, weirdo. Some cash, but never too much. I'm a mom, remember? Cash doesn't last long.
Among the items in the Mom Bag that are supremely useful but of no real value:
Chapstick
A Tide Pen
Emergency yarn
Gum
Advil
Nail clippers
Tweezers
Bandaids
A small spiral notebook
See? Useful, but not anything to write home about, if you're livin' the Thug Life. But I'm a Scout Mom, and we are prepared. I have whipped out that Tide Pen many times when a kid (whose kid doesn't matter. At some point, they're all mine.) has spilled something on his uniform, and WHOOSH, stain destroyed! Need gum to pop your ears on a plane? Gotcha covered. Splinter? TWEEZED! Homesick kid? Gum cures many ills. Especially if you have braces and Mom doesn't usually let you have it, but Miss Amy will...just this once. And Emergency yarn is a thing. If you think it isn't, try being anywhere with me when my anxiety is all ramped up and I don't have any knitting to keep my idle hands busy. There will be blood. Of course, then I would have the Bandaids, so...
There is one thing, however, that I have been carrying around for several weeks and I can't bring myself to part with it. It's more valuable to me at this point in my life than any legal tender. It is a wrapper from a package of peanut butter cheese crackers. And I may have it bronzed.
The day that Big Hairy Manchild shipped to Boot Camp, he had about ten minutes to sit with us at MEPS (Military Entrance Processing Station. I hate long parenthetical breaks. But I also hate it when people don't explain themselves and speak Military at ya.), and wolf down a snack before being sworn in and leaving. He chose three packs of the PB&C crackers and shoved one in his face and two in his pocket. When he was done, I automatically reached out my hand for the empty wrapper, as I had done thousands of times before, and he dutifully deposited it. Into the Mom Bag it went.
I'm sure anyone who saw this unfold barely even noticed it. But the irony hit me over the head like a Big Heavy Ironic Object.
In the weeks leading up to his departure, the Manchild and I had been engaged in a dance. It wasn't one of those gracefully choreographed Mother/Son numbers that goes viral on Facebook. Oh, it was viral, alright, in the sense that we were getting sick of each other. But we were also both spinning and sidestepping and trying very hard not to actually look one another in the eyeballs, and face the fact that soon we were going to have to do without one another. And since he emerged, with some effort, from my loins some twenty years ago, we had never done that. Now it was upon us, and we were both ready. And we felt weird about that.
It's hard to admit you want your kid to leave. You feel like a terrible person. And try explaining it to your friends who have young ones, or your friends who are dealing with custody arrangements and visitation. They're knee deep in the nurturing, and you're buying your wee one razors and...other things, occasionally. Hey, you face facts or you end up a really young grandma. Pick one. Anyway, moving on...
I didn't want him to be gone. I was just ready for him to leave. There's a difference. And the difference is this: The first sentence is all about Mom. The second one is all about Kid. As much as it was going to tear me up, I wanted him to go and start his life, and experience the success of seeing his goals come to fruition. And yes, I wanted to own a complete set of dishes again. I cannot adequately express to you the simple, but complete joy of opening a cupboard to retrieve a glass, and actually seeing a glass! Several, even! However will I choose between them?!
And he was conflicted in his own way. Sick to death of me being around all the time. And irritated with himself for wanting me to be. This Summer saw some epic eye rolling and door slamming, but we also nearly wet ourselves laughing more times than I can remember. It also saw the birth of his new favorite phrase, "You're Momming me pretty hard, right now." At first I couldn't figure out if it was an insult or a compliment. Then I realized it was a little of both. It was a response born of both gratitude and frustration. It was uttered when I threw my arm across his chest while driving. Because my right arm is going to stop a 175-pound body from flying through a windshield. It was accompanied by a snort when I reminded him to pick his wallet up off the table at a restaurant. The fact is, he was getting damned annoyed by my mere presence, and even angrier that he was going to miss me. The audacity of me loving him and making him love him back! I've got some nerve.
Poor Daddy. If my husband wasn't bald already, those last few weeks would have done it. The poor man had to wade through a sea of texts from the two of us, listing each others' transgressions one minute, and mopping up the Goodbye Tears the next. A lesser man would have been driven to drink. He just played a lot of golf and brought me home a cat.
By the time he left, Manchild's eyes had been rolled so many times they nearly stuck that way. Turns out our moms were right! We finally had a rather ugly interaction over dinner about three days before he left. I called him out on his attitude, and he realized I was right and responded by being angry at me for being right and stomping out of the restaurant, after I returned from storming off to the restroom. For the record, I am aware it sounds bad, and doesn't paint either of us in a favorable light. Also, it was a Red Robin. And the last thing I saw before I dramatically flung open the ladies' restroom door, was a picture above said door of George Costanza, posing seductively in his boxers and black dress socks. It's hard to be dramatic when presented with that image. The ride home was long and quiet. And when we got to the house, we got out of the car, and he grabbed me and hugged me, on purpose, with both arms, and let me cry, and didn't pull away first. He always pulled away first. And I almost never got both arms.
We were tired, and we were both waving our white flags.
And so, on that Monday morning, he was sworn into the Marines, as a man. And he bought his own food, because he is a man. And he let me, "Mom," him one last time, because he is a man, and realized that me being a mom doesn't undo that.
After a Summer of conflicted emotions, we are both where we need to be. I am focusing on enjoying the last of the time I have with Thing 2, and the Recruit is enjoying first class accommodations and special one-on-one time with the best motivational speakers and fitness trainers the Corps. has to offer.
And there is a crinkly, slightly crumby wrapper at the bottom of the Mom Bag, that still smells vaguely of peanut butter, and absolutely wreaks of irony. Maybe I'll glue it into his baby book.
But first, I'm going to have some cereal. Because I own bowls again!
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