My senior in high school left the house this morning with a slight swagger on the way to the golf team meeting. The top of the totem pole looked great at 9:00. At 9:40 the view was slightly different. Cell phone rings: “Mom! I need a sports physical before try-outs begin at 12:15.” Hmmm. “OK. Where do you need to go?” He tried one place on his own, only to come to the dawning recognition that he needed his mother. He is still a minor.
Enter Mom, comfortably ensconced in her reading chair, blissfully developing curriculum for fall classes. “Mom! You need to get over here. And there’s nine people in front of me! I’ll never make it! Can we try somewhere else?” “I think we could go to Convenient Care.” “Can you call quick and find out?’ “Yes, dear.” I watch my peaceful morning evaporate into a quick change of clothes and a testosterone-infused ride to the nearest clinic.
But here was the great thing. We were both laughing. He was a knucklehead and I was the knucklehead’s mother, and there was nothing either one of us could do except drop everything and wait for a doctor’s signature on a sports physical form.
All I had to give up this morning were my hours of leisurely thought. All he had to do was release his pride. It could have been so much worse.
And now, he’s on the green and I’m back to my day, and the wind ripples through our sails with the humor of being human and letting it be OK. It’s a good day.