“What do the boys have on their calendar tomorrow?” Greg asked on a Monday night.
An innocent question that shouldn’t have caused me stress, but I always worry about what’s really behind the question. Rather than interrogate — I learned 20 years ago that technique won’t work — I answered the question.
“Tomorrow, they’re free,” I said.
It was the day after — a Wednesday — when the summer schedule of baseball and basketball practices, weight-lifting, sports camps, orthodontic appointments, haircuts and a new job for Alex would start in earnest.
After my simple answer to a simple question came more details.
“So, the boys could go to Wamego tomorrow to pick up some mowers, then over to Manhattan to pick up another mower?” Greg asked.
And I was stuck.
Sure “the boys” could do those things — once I remembered they are 17, 15 and 13. But “my boys” have no business driving all over the countryside by themselves. After nearly a quarter-century of marriage, however, I knew it was futile to argue, especially with the boys within hearing distance and always ready to rail against my “mollycoddling.”
I kept my mouth shut about the fact that, although the boys have been to both of those towns, they’ve never driven in them. But I knew Alex could use Google maps as well as I could to find driving directions.
Then I heard Greg’s conversation with Alex as I walked through the living room.
“You’ll need to get some of the smaller chains out of the white pickup truck,” Greg told Alex, “because that trailer doesn’t have a back rail.”
I zipped my lips and quietly headed to bed.
As I tossed and turned, I took a mental inventory of which friends I knew where:
Michael, a former co-worker, now lives in Manhattan, and I still have his cell phone number.
Rachel, the boys’ godsister, lives in Manhattan and her folks could put me in touch in a heartbeat.
I didn’t know anyone in Wamego, but a friend, Josi, grew up there and still keeps in touch with friends.
All the while, I had visions of Alex driving down the highway and having a lawn mower come off the trailer. Or, worse, the trailer come unhitched.
The logical side of my brain reminded me that my oldest baby will be leaving home in about a year. If he has his way, he’ll be at college about an hour away. If I have my way, he’ll move out of state.
Either way, he’ll be driving places he’s never been. And he’ll be taking trips I won’t know anything about. He’ll learn and adapt, just as we all did. After all, at 22, just five years older than my son is now, I was navigating the Beltway around Washington, D.C., (although I avoided navigating D.C. itself with a vehicle).
I went to work on that Tuesday and shared my story with co-workers. The men rolled their eyes. The young, single ones were probably thinking they were lucky I wasn’t their mothers. The older, married ones asked if my boys were capable of doing anything without my supervision.
The women, meanwhile, were right there with me, amazed that Greg hadn’t taken a day off to run his errands.
At about 4:15 that day, my cell phone rang. It was Greg.
“The boys are on 240,” he said, which meant they were just a few miles from home. “I knew you were worried.”
I don’t think I was the only one.
I know two things about Alex. First, he doesn’t routinely talk on his cell phone while driving. Second, he rarely thinks to call and tell us when he leaves or returns home.
So, although I never asked, the fact that Greg talked to the boys while they were on the road but nearly home tells me one thing — my husband called to check on them.
I have yet to discover the appropriate masculine form of the word “mollycoddle.” But I know I’ve witnessed it.
sandman (anonymous) says...
Yes, we may be "Mommies" but they are also "Daddies", being male are not to show their "worry". Afterall, they are the shoulders we lean on.
June 14, 2010 at 2:32 p.m. ( permalink | suggest removal )