Can I Be Real? Confessions of a Mom-Writer. 

I carry him, wanting him to hang tight because tomorrow he’ll turn eighteen, and then I won’t see him for months on end. Leggy New York models and his sybaritic lifestyle will steal our attention. He’ll be coming home on Thanksgivings only to tell me that my rendition of turkey is getting less and less dry every year, and he’ll kiss me on the cheek anyway. He may have to crouch over because somehow during my prosaic, languorous life, I have shrunk over time. I’ll learn to settle for weekly calls (if I’m lucky) of his breathing, one-word responses on the other line and eye-rolls when I endearingly call him Judy. Had I not been awake concerned over his safety from being miles away, I would have missed him abbreviating his trip to Portugal. The noisy streets and pedestrian cursing that will filter through the phone line, or any other cutting-edge communication in the next twenty years—smoke signals or something—will be our queue to end the call because this progeny of mine—this beautiful being, age one going on thirty—has some type of important business call. I’ll then let my thoughts get the best of me, since he won’t be there to assure me, and believe the universe has conspired to deny me from my little boy. It is then when the afterthought arrives when I see a text message that says, “LOVE U,” albeit typed in a lackadaisical manner, which would be enough to hold me over.

So, I say “HANG TIGHT, SOL,” while I get this Mom thing right and hold you while I still can.

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