I’m pretty organized. I keep a detailed calendar, only make appointments I can keep and work hard not to waste other people’s time. I have always believed in this adage;

“Your lack of planning is not my emergency.”

I guess the author of that little piece of wisdom must have forgotten to add the caveat, “unless you’re someone’s mother,” because these days I seem to live by the (far lesser known but equally revered) saying;

“I have no plans and no life, so if you miss the bus and need a ride to school or forget your P.E. clothes (that I have washed and folded) and need me to drive back and get them in rush hour traffic or suddenly decide at 8:00pm you want go somewhere that scares me to death until midnight and then want to be picked up a block away so no one knows I exist… your wish is my command.

2 PM, Saturday: I have taken the dogs to the park, gone to the gym, made breakfast and lunch for Danny and done two loads of laundry. I’ve looked forward to this afternoon all week. Nothing else to do. Nothing. Read. Write a little. As a defensive measure, I ask my son what his plans are for the rest of the day. He says, no plans. (“Perfect.” I reply). I sit down at my desk to leisurely peruse the paper.

2:20 PM: “August might come over,” he yells down the stairs.
“Okay,” I yell back.

2:25 PM: “Harrison is coming too,” he calls
“Okay,” I call back.

2:40 PM: His door opens. “I’m hungry.”

I make a second lunch.

3:07 PM: Harrison can’t get a ride. Can we pick him up?
“Sure.”

So I get in the car and go pick up Harrison. I come back and open the book I’ve been reading. I feel a presence at the door.

“Can you take us to the mall?”
“What about August?”
“He wants to know if we can pick him up on the way there.”
I stare daggers at him. Surely he will feel some sense of shame. (Hahahahaha).

I pick up August. We get halfway to the mall when he realizes he has no money and forgot his phone. We drive back. His parents aren’t home (Why would they be?) I shove him through their dog door, he gets his stuff and we drive to the mall. It’s 5:30PM. We decide that they will eat dinner there and I will come back to get them at 9:00 PM. I come home. Feed the dogs again, light some candles, put some dinner in the oven and spend a half hour figuring out how to change our (“our,” what a joke) TV from the x-box configuration to HBO. I sit down in front of a real movie. Hot food. Hot movie.

Ding. Text message.

“Can you pick us up now?”

Oh, well that’s simple. I type into my phone…

“No.”

I turn the movie back on. I take a bite of salad. Ding.

“We’re bored.”

He’s going to have to do better than that.

“No.”

Several minutes go by. The movie’s getting good. Ding.

“But I’m cold.”

He’s cold. It’s Southern California in June. I don’t even respond.

Ding.

“August lost a shoe and Harrison thought he was giving a dollar to a homeless guy but he gave him a ten by mistake and tried to ask for it back but the guy got weird so we let him have it and we didn’t
have enough for dinner and we’re all still hungry.”

Ohmyf’inggod. Okay. Take a breath. These are other people’s children. It’s irresponsible to leave them at the mall hungry and half shoeless. I pause my movie, hit the wrong button on the remote, lose my connection to Netflix, text that I’m on my way and drive to our meeting place.

But no one’s there. Ten minutes, fifteen minutes. People are annoyed at where I’m parked. I move. I move again. I consider maiming myself to get a handicapped sticker. Finally I see them strolling over. They are laughing. They have Frappuccino’s. I hate them. August has lost his other shoe, but somehow acquired a top hat. We get home where the dogs have pulled my meal down from the counter, broken the plate and eaten the remote.

“Oh man, I think I just stepped in glass.”
“Can we have quesadillas?”
“Do we have speakers that will connect to Harrison’s phone?”
“Your dog just like threw up a battery in the living room.”
“I don’t like quesadillas. Can I have something else?”
“We’re going upstairs ’til dinner’s ready.”

I stand in the kitchen and begin to multi-task. (That’s what I call shredding cheese and crying at the same time.) Why? Why do I do this? Well, I guess it’s because I genuinely want him to have a good time. I want him to have friends and go places. But I also believe he should make plans ahead of time and understand that the world doesn’t revolve around his every whim. I look up. Danny is standing at the door.

“Mom, I I just wanted to say thanks for doing all the driving and everything today.”

Well there you go. THAT’S why I do this. I wipe away my tears and smile up at him. He’s not a selfish monster. He does appreciate all these things I do for him.

“But in the future, could you not talk when I have friends in the car?”

Rae.

I had an appointment with my therapist this morning. But rather than deal with what was actually on my mind, (everybody hates me) I decided to take a break. Occasionally you need to relax a little and manipulate your 50 minutes towards an easy session. One where you leave content and lying to yourself about the masterful job you’re doing with your life.

So I walked into her office armed with a golden oldie of mine that I know I can complain about for the full 50 minutes and finish feeling really self-righteous. It’s called, “My Parents Didn’t Know What The Hell They Were Doing.” I sat down and warmed up with the “Father Was Never Home,” diatribe, segued artfully into the “They-Never-Told-Me-Anything-About-Sex” lament and was sliding comfortably into my rant on how no one ever helped me with my homework, how I was forced to babysit my younger siblings, never got a car, couldn’t leave the house and had to fold the entire family’s laundry when suddenly, it hit me.

My parents were geniuses.

Oh my God. There’s no denying it. They knew exactly what they were doing and in retrospect, it was brilliant. They had the upper hand, and they used it. When they said no, it was no. If you demanded an explanation, they laughed. Why should they explain? They were the parents, we were just teenagers.

I mean what would you give for even a week of raising your kids the way your parents did? Let’s consider the possibilities:

-You could hit them.

-No seat belts. If they argued with you in the car, you could tap the brakes and throw them into the dashboard to emphasize your point.

-Parenting wasn’t an industry. You just did it. If the kid got fucked up, people felt sorry for the parents.

-You could feed them crap. Even frozen crap. Two thirds of the food pyramid was crap.

-Bad moods were just “phases.” Not signs you should have seen coming long before they hacked into the County Records and officially declared you dead. (Real funny, Danny.)

-”Friends with benefits,” meant sucking up to an unpopular kid who had a pool.

-You didn’t have to confiscate 7 goddamned devices to keep them from communicating with each other.

-You could say, “Wait ’til your father gets home.” Not, “Wait ’til your father who’s living with my ex-best friend and raising her kids by her second husband gets home.”

-And if he didn’t come home, you could hit them.

Rae.

Turns out, studying in the library at school makes my son’s skin burn.

8:00 a.m. – flower display outside the grocery store.
Seven middle aged men stand staring at sunflowers and blue carnations.
Yeah, this should do it.

I think it’s just perfect that at a point where I no longer even want mirrors in the house, I have a teenager that can’t stop posing in front of them.