The boy stood at the curb and looked blankly into my car before turning away and squinting into the sun at the long line of vehicles idling in the pickup line.
Did he not see me? Was I invisible?
I tapped the horn briefly and waved.
His head swiveled until his face softened into that look of recognition. He could relax now.
"You didn't look like my mom," he laughed as he opened the back door and dumped his 400-pound backpack onto the seat. He dropped himself into the front seat and smirked.
Impulse overcame every rational thought in my head as I checked the rearview mirror and eased into traffic. Who do I look like? I asked, knowing full well I was opening myself up to self-destruction through the boy's unvarnished truth.
This could be just like that moment in kindergarten when his classmate tugged on my pants leg and asked ... "Are you his grandmother?"
I didn't cry (thanks for asking) but I did go directly from school to the hair-color aisle at the local pharmacy for a box of Color So Natural Only Her Hairdresser Knows For Sure ... and that guy in Toothpaste who heard me cussing out a five-year-old as I tossed boxes of Clairol at boxes. "Nutmeg is the darkest you should go, you'll look like Severus Snape if you go with the Midnight Black.
I will tell you, in case you were wondering, there is NOTHING that compares to a helpful old man in the toothpaste aisle. Not even a teenager whose mom's crazy, unkempt tri-colored hair hasn't seen a hairdresser since before pandemic times.
The son has learned not to take the bait.
No slouch, the boy pretended he hadn't heard me as he rummaged through the cockpit for snacks.
"What's this?" he asks playfully, snatching the day's offering from the center console and wrinkling his nose at the aroma that emerged from the stay-fresh pouch. "It has to be based on a dare."
And there just isn't any kinda way that kid is going to let the raw organic compost product pass anywhere near his super-sensitive taste buds.
It feels strange to acknowledge, but this afternoon drive time is the best part of my day. Even when I compete with his noise-canceling earbuds to the smallest tidbits from his day, there is something deeply satisfying about the easy silence.
He doesn't harbor unhappiness yet. Right now he is content inside his own skin, even if he dresses it up with layers of snark and surliness. A smile is as contagious as a yawn with this kid. Not for trying, but he just can't help it.
I look forward to seeing his face as he walks out of school at precisely 2:19 ... four minutes after the bell. When he arrives at 2:20, not recognizing his mother, I know there will be an epic story about the harrowing journey between the last block and the locker bays. It will fill the whole ride home.
It doesn't get better than this.
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