Talking it through

Last night after the lad came home from work, we stood around the kitchen making some pasta. We talked about his summer so far and his job. He has had a wonderful summer and even the job hasn’t put too much of a cramp in his style. Besides which, the pay is rather extraordinary for a menial type job. He’s raking in some dough. Finally the conversation turned to school. We discussed finances for the coming year and a fair allowance. That was pretty easy, actually. He’s reasonable. We agreed on a monthly sum and, well, that’s done and we’re both satisfied with it. We also got out the calendar and marked off the school holidays. He won’t be here for Thanksgiving, but there is nice long winter break, so that’s the first time he’ll probably be back home.

“I can’t wait to get to school,” he said. “I’m ready to go now.” He did a little dance around the kitchen with a big grin on his face.

I turned away to stir the pasta and the tears started trickling down my face. Oh, I hate doing that.

“Hey,” he said. “Are you crying?”

“No,” I said.

“Yes, you are. I made you cry. I’m sorry.” He came over and gave me a huge hug.

And, of course, that just made it worse.

Between hiccups I told him, “You have nothing to be sorry for, sweetie. You don’t need to feel sorry or hide your enthusiasm. I am so glad that you are excited about going to school. You will love it and wanting to go is natural and healthy and normal. I really am glad you feel that way. I just need a little time to adjust to the reality. I’ll probably do this a couple of times in the next week, but don’t pay attention. It goes with the territory. It’s a mom thing.”

“Well,” he said, “I’d rather you cry than jump up and down for joy at getting rid of me.”

As if. But that made me laugh.

And then we stood around the kitchen playing remember when. We reminisced about firsts and special occasions and funny episodes we each remembered. All the way back to his memory of asking his dad and me where he came from. “Do you remember that?” he asked. “Do you?” I asked.

“Oh yeah,” he said. “Dad looked like he’d swallowed a bug. And you told me I grew in your stomach like a pumpkin. That’s all I wanted to know.”

“It’s a good thing. That’s all I was prepared to tell you. It was about then that I realized you weren’t going to be an easy project. You asked at least a hundred questions a day. And I didn’t know the answers to half of them.”

“You know,” he said, “I’m sort of scared, too. This won’t be my home anymore. I mean, I’ll be able to come home to visit, but it won’t *be* my home anymore. My home is going to be a half a room. I’m going to miss you and feeling taken care of.”

“Sweetie, this is always your home. You won’t live here anymore, but you can always come back and be at home. Whenever you want to or need to. I’m going to miss you like crazy, too. But, I’m only a cell phone away. Big changes are scary, but we’re both gonna be fine. I’m kind of envious of you, actually.”

“Really?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said. “You’re 19 with the whole world ahead of you. Oh yeah.”

We had fun last night and I’m glad we talked about everything. It helped a lot. For both of us, I think.