She's A Little Runaway
I woke up early this morning, rested from another quiet Friday night at home with only the company of my 11 and 3/4 year old son. At 7:45, I yelled upstairs from the comfort of my bed, "Shorty! Get up and get ready to go! We're leaving in 30 minutes!" "Okay!" he whined from the cozy comfort of his bed. I rolled over and rolled my eyes, closing my lids as I tried to go back to sleep and escape the reality of my life. There I was, 32, still single, and certainly still the mother of a whiny momma's boy.
At 8:00, I poked my head out from under my covers and yelled again, "Shorty! Get up, get dressed and eat breakfast! We're leaving in 15 minutes!" "Okay!" he whined again as I heard him scurry out of bed to the bathroom. I thought I better get up and get going myself or I'd be late again for my hair appointment and no doubt piss my hair dresser off so much this time that there'd be no way she would bother trying to work me in.
At 8:03 I rolled out of bed and feverishly started getting myself together. Shorty still hadn't made it downstairs and I was getting impatient. If there's one thing I dislike more than his whinyness, it's being late because I've had to wait for him. The whinyness I'd grown accustomed too since it followed his first breath in the delivery room. The waiting I'm still working on.
At 8:10, I furiously brushed my hair into a brown football helmet suited for an early Saturday morning trip to the salon, irritated that he'd just then made his way down to the kitchen. I heard him drop two veggie sausage onto a plate and start up the microwave. "He's going to make a bullsh!t breakfast and whine for a take out meal at the salon!" I thought to myself. Sure enough, after I'd finished collecting my Saturday At The Salon necessities (book, check; checkbook, check; purse with cell phones, check) I flew into the kitchen and noted my son at the table with the sausage and a bowl of grapes...shoeless with bedhead I might add.
"Shorty! It's 8:15! I am not going to be late for you AGAIN! That's it, I'm leaving. You can stay here by yourself!" I shouted as I tossed my cell phone onto the counter. I know he hates having to wait for me while I have my hair done, and after this week's incident, I didn't want to be stuck with him all day either. With that in mind, I left. "I'll call you when I get there," I snorted as I closed the garage door. I've been on call all week, so I have the company cell phone.
On the drive up, I thought of the plans I had for the day. First, my bi-monthly hair appointment for a press and curl. Next, lunch at The Olive Garden with my Brazilian friend. Finally, she and I would catch a matinee showing of Stomp The Yard. This being the first time I've left our small IA town without Shorty in the company of a sitter, I thought it a good time for him to start getting a feel for life without the apron strings. "Would he run away from home?" I thought to myself. Nah, he's too dependent and needy. "Should I call him to tell him how long I'll be gone? Nope," I decided. If he won't runaway from home, I will.
With that I spent the day in town taking care of me and enjoying adult, Y chromosome free company. For the first time since the incident, I relaxed. When my Brazilian friend joined me for lunch, she asked if the second place setting was for Shorty. "No, you're sitting there," I replied. "Where is he?" she asked with a quizzical look on her face. "I left him at home!" I snapped. "You are really angry!" she exclaimed. We talked about the incident and she asked if I was PMSing when it went down. I told her that was part of it but I realized why I'd been so emotional.
I'm so used to having 4 months on and then a break from him, but I haven't had one since I changed our winter holiday plans. "I have been with him every day since August! My emotional gauge is low and I need a break!" By the end of the day, I felt better and understood why when my sisters and I were growing up, my mother would take 8 hours every Saturday just to buy groceries and stop at Cloth World. I should runaway more often.
At 8:00, I poked my head out from under my covers and yelled again, "Shorty! Get up, get dressed and eat breakfast! We're leaving in 15 minutes!" "Okay!" he whined again as I heard him scurry out of bed to the bathroom. I thought I better get up and get going myself or I'd be late again for my hair appointment and no doubt piss my hair dresser off so much this time that there'd be no way she would bother trying to work me in.
At 8:03 I rolled out of bed and feverishly started getting myself together. Shorty still hadn't made it downstairs and I was getting impatient. If there's one thing I dislike more than his whinyness, it's being late because I've had to wait for him. The whinyness I'd grown accustomed too since it followed his first breath in the delivery room. The waiting I'm still working on.
At 8:10, I furiously brushed my hair into a brown football helmet suited for an early Saturday morning trip to the salon, irritated that he'd just then made his way down to the kitchen. I heard him drop two veggie sausage onto a plate and start up the microwave. "He's going to make a bullsh!t breakfast and whine for a take out meal at the salon!" I thought to myself. Sure enough, after I'd finished collecting my Saturday At The Salon necessities (book, check; checkbook, check; purse with cell phones, check) I flew into the kitchen and noted my son at the table with the sausage and a bowl of grapes...shoeless with bedhead I might add.
"Shorty! It's 8:15! I am not going to be late for you AGAIN! That's it, I'm leaving. You can stay here by yourself!" I shouted as I tossed my cell phone onto the counter. I know he hates having to wait for me while I have my hair done, and after this week's incident, I didn't want to be stuck with him all day either. With that in mind, I left. "I'll call you when I get there," I snorted as I closed the garage door. I've been on call all week, so I have the company cell phone.
On the drive up, I thought of the plans I had for the day. First, my bi-monthly hair appointment for a press and curl. Next, lunch at The Olive Garden with my Brazilian friend. Finally, she and I would catch a matinee showing of Stomp The Yard. This being the first time I've left our small IA town without Shorty in the company of a sitter, I thought it a good time for him to start getting a feel for life without the apron strings. "Would he run away from home?" I thought to myself. Nah, he's too dependent and needy. "Should I call him to tell him how long I'll be gone? Nope," I decided. If he won't runaway from home, I will.
With that I spent the day in town taking care of me and enjoying adult, Y chromosome free company. For the first time since the incident, I relaxed. When my Brazilian friend joined me for lunch, she asked if the second place setting was for Shorty. "No, you're sitting there," I replied. "Where is he?" she asked with a quizzical look on her face. "I left him at home!" I snapped. "You are really angry!" she exclaimed. We talked about the incident and she asked if I was PMSing when it went down. I told her that was part of it but I realized why I'd been so emotional.
I'm so used to having 4 months on and then a break from him, but I haven't had one since I changed our winter holiday plans. "I have been with him every day since August! My emotional gauge is low and I need a break!" By the end of the day, I felt better and understood why when my sisters and I were growing up, my mother would take 8 hours every Saturday just to buy groceries and stop at Cloth World. I should runaway more often.
posted by N'j at 9:22 PM
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