Last night at dinner, I was so tired I literally could have laid my head on the table and fallen asleep. All that prevented me were the good manners my mom pounded into my head growing up.
My own son, however, has yet to learn those manners. He just looked at me curiously and asked why I was so sleepy.
"Long day at work," I answered.
He nodded. Then, in a voice dripping in sarcasm, he said, "Typing makes you tired, huh?"
And THAT woke me up. My lovely young son reduces my entire daily life down to...typing.
"Typing, huh?" I replied.
Suddenly, I felt like I was in a movie, and the past 10 hours whizzed by in a series of flashbacks. I saw myself rousing an unwilling child from bed; feeding that kid; nagging him to get ready for school; asking repeatedly if he had his drumsticks/homework/phone/meter/lunch; ensuring he and his three friends left for school on time; doing laundry; running the dishwasher; making his endocrinology appointment; fighting with the pharmacy about his insulin; talking to the school nurse; reserving a hotel room for his fashion show; driving to work; going to three meetings; completing all of my work; stopping for gas; fighting rush hour home; checking in on my mom and a friend by phone; making dinner; washing the dishes; giving an impromptu lesson on the importance of being honest and honorable; and getting ready to drive Mark to his drum lesson. And those are just the things I remember doing.
"My job is a lot more than just typing," I told him. "I spent my day managing my work life, my personal life and YOUR personal life, which, it turns out, is a lot of work. And that is why I'm tired, not because of typing."
Maybe it was the angry, crazed look in my eyes, or the defensive tone of my voice. Maybe he realized how condescending he had sounded. For a moment, Mark's sense of self-preservation kicked in, and I thought he might actually live to see his next birthday.
Until he opened his mouth again and said, "You don't have to manage my life. I can do it all myself."
And, scratch the self-preservation.
His comment triggered another flashback. It was me, two days ago, arriving after school to pick Mark up--except he was nowhere around. I asked his friend Sean where Mark was, and Sean waved vaguely at the school playground.
"Mark's out there somewhere, looking for his P.E. clothes," he said. "He lost them again."
Obviously, Mark was right. He most certainly can manage his own life. Maybe not successfully, but he does manage.
I simply stood up from the table, and cleared my dishes, because it would be harder to choke Mark out if my hands were full and I was in another room.
"I love you," I called back to him. "And when you grow up, I hope you have six children just as wonderful as you are."
I could feel him staring in my direction, confused, sure that was an insult but unsure exactly how.
I know that feeling well. It's how I felt when my own mom wished the same thing on me as a child.
And now, all these years later, I finally know what she meant by it!
My own son, however, has yet to learn those manners. He just looked at me curiously and asked why I was so sleepy.
"Long day at work," I answered.
He nodded. Then, in a voice dripping in sarcasm, he said, "Typing makes you tired, huh?"
And THAT woke me up. My lovely young son reduces my entire daily life down to...typing.
"Typing, huh?" I replied.
Suddenly, I felt like I was in a movie, and the past 10 hours whizzed by in a series of flashbacks. I saw myself rousing an unwilling child from bed; feeding that kid; nagging him to get ready for school; asking repeatedly if he had his drumsticks/homework/phone/meter/lunch; ensuring he and his three friends left for school on time; doing laundry; running the dishwasher; making his endocrinology appointment; fighting with the pharmacy about his insulin; talking to the school nurse; reserving a hotel room for his fashion show; driving to work; going to three meetings; completing all of my work; stopping for gas; fighting rush hour home; checking in on my mom and a friend by phone; making dinner; washing the dishes; giving an impromptu lesson on the importance of being honest and honorable; and getting ready to drive Mark to his drum lesson. And those are just the things I remember doing.
"My job is a lot more than just typing," I told him. "I spent my day managing my work life, my personal life and YOUR personal life, which, it turns out, is a lot of work. And that is why I'm tired, not because of typing."
Maybe it was the angry, crazed look in my eyes, or the defensive tone of my voice. Maybe he realized how condescending he had sounded. For a moment, Mark's sense of self-preservation kicked in, and I thought he might actually live to see his next birthday.
Until he opened his mouth again and said, "You don't have to manage my life. I can do it all myself."
And, scratch the self-preservation.
His comment triggered another flashback. It was me, two days ago, arriving after school to pick Mark up--except he was nowhere around. I asked his friend Sean where Mark was, and Sean waved vaguely at the school playground.
"Mark's out there somewhere, looking for his P.E. clothes," he said. "He lost them again."
Obviously, Mark was right. He most certainly can manage his own life. Maybe not successfully, but he does manage.
I simply stood up from the table, and cleared my dishes, because it would be harder to choke Mark out if my hands were full and I was in another room.
"I love you," I called back to him. "And when you grow up, I hope you have six children just as wonderful as you are."
I could feel him staring in my direction, confused, sure that was an insult but unsure exactly how.
I know that feeling well. It's how I felt when my own mom wished the same thing on me as a child.
And now, all these years later, I finally know what she meant by it!
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