All in a day's work

From the newly turned 16-year-old:

Q. Hey Mom. Will you read Blondie and tell me if it’s dirty or if I just don’t get it?

A. You just don’t get it. Should I somehow be concerned you understood the double entendre that wasn’t at all intended but didn’t at all get the reference to golf?

Note to self: Sign that kid up for golf lessons. PDQ.

Seven-year-old son is sitting on my lap as I’m typing an e-mail to Melody. I make some reference to my middle age. K~ pops up with this, “Mom, you are only in your 40s. Middle age is in the 50s.”

Happy Mother’s Day to me!

Almost 12-year-old daughter has seen fit to be sweet this weekend. Although her latest saying besides calling everyone “Peter Pettigrew” is “You have a big bum.”

As if I need anyone to tell me that. Love you too, hon. But thanks for staying up the other night and watching “Pride and Prejudice” with me (not the A&E one). I enjoyed spending chick flick Friday with you. And I hope you heard loud and clear all the times I said, “See, could be worse for you.” Each time that horrible mother humiliated poor Elizabeth Bennett. Indeed.

Oldest son who is not prone to affection hugs me at least five times yesterday and tells me he loves me. He wishes me “Happy Mother’s Day!”

No one helps with the dishes. But I’m not too disappointed. I’m making it a good day.

Three missionaries speak in church. One returning and two leaving (on Wednesday). I am listening to the second boy speak his about mother, who also happens to be a friend of mine, and it hits me. Hard. In my heart and in the stomach. My son will leave long before either of those boys come home. I imagine–because I do these things to myself–having to say good-bye. Return home to a quieter house. Walk past an empty bedroom. Sit across from an empty chair. I anticipate longing to hear his laugh. See his face. Feel his infrequent yet always appreciated hugs. Miss even his habitual “Mom. Get me some food.”

I think I’m going to throw up.