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…but, Oldest Son called me at 1am. I answer, feigning sleep (I was right here, reading blogs, but he doesn’t need to know that.)

Immediately, I hear him let out a string of expletives that would make even a sailor blush.

No, not at me. At the girl with whom he spent the weekend (with whom he also shared a house for just over a year, up until March of this year.)

Just as I was about to jump his shit for that, I hear her return a string of her own.

Then I remembered…they roll like that.

Correction: My son rolls like that, and incites anyone who spends more than 5 minutes with him to roll like that, as well. In fact, I believe that boy could incite God to take His own name in vain.

When he finally recognizes that I have, in fact, answered my phone, he says, “I hate to do this to you in the middle of the night, Mom, but I need you to come get me outta here.”

He heard my snort, I guess, because next he said, “Well, shit – if I stay here, I’m gonna end up doing something stupid.”

Veiled threats don’t go over well with me. Have I mentioned that?

At my lack of response, the pity party begins. “I’m ready to give up. I’m not like you, Mom. I don’t think like you. I haven’t got your brains, OR your patience. (funny how he has no clue that I acquired that from 20 yrs of mothering him…) All my friends won’t have anything to do with me. Every girl I try to be with – it ends up like this shit. (the common denominator has not yet dawned on him, apparently…) I’ve got nothing. (nice to be categorized as nothing…) You know what? This phone is going to die on me, so nevermind. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine…”

Dead air.

Dial tone.

Shit!

So here I sit remembering being 20. Remembering thinking no one could tell me anything remotely useful, least of all my mother. But then, I never called my mother in times of crisis. She was the LAST person I’d give that kind of ammunition to.

Mothering Oldest Son? Best I can liken it to is herding cats. Completely frustrating. Nearly futile, without help. So I learned early to call in the Big Guns. I tell God, “Ok – he’s yours. Good luck. Let me know what, if anything, you need me to do, because I’m out of ideas.”

Some people say before we are born, when we are still just a soul looking for a body, we choose our parents. If that’s true, I still, to this day, have no clue why this child chose me. I’ve spent a considerable amount of time over the years wondering.

Push come to shove, I’d say he was looking for someone to persecute, or he wanted to teach me unconditional love…

…or both.

Keepin' it real in the bloggerhood,

Suzanne

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