Curbside Pickup

Yesterday, my son cracked his shell for the first time. 

It made only a small fissure. But a mother knows. 

Earlier in the day, I stayed a safe distance from the bus stop. 

It was the least I could do to assure my growing boy that no one would suspect he has a mom who is so cringe. (Don’t even get him started on how she dances to music in public places.)

So I waited like a dog-walking stranger admitting defeat under the oppressive sun, taking refuge under a sliver of shade on the curb, dawdling on her phone, offering her overheated dog droplets from a bottle until the breeze...or a schoolboy...comes back around. 

This is how it goes when a little boy begins to crack his shell. A mother knows. 

I traced that fissure all day, wondering when the next one will come. And then the next. Until all that’s left are shards and he’ll roam free without the shell I’ve nurtured him in. 

Until then I’ll do a poor job, in his opinion, of choosing when to be the stranger he wants or the protector he needs. 

I’ll be his greatest embarrassment for a number of years—by merely existing! Even worse, by moving through life with principles. Until one day, hopefully, when his grandmother's genes kick in and he comes into his own power. 

For now, my fissure boy, he calls me a Karen. 

To that I say: Sweetie, my concerns are not trifles—and by the way, do you know the male equivalent of a Karen? They [The Unevolved] call him “A Real Man.” Or “not a [that other word for ‘cat’].”

Be your own man, my Brilliant Boy. 

Mamma will eagerly await your arrival. From a safe distance on the curb.