Monday, June 4, 2012


The clock ticks mercilessly toward midnight and we are finally driving home after a long day in the sun, and baseball games. There were tough last inning losses and quality time spent with folks who were once reluctant friends of circumstance, and now dear confidants.

T first describes to me the insane amount of food he devoured between games earlier, while a girlfriend and I snuck in a quick bike ride. He sings the lyrics to every bad song on the pop radio station he's selected; bouncing between stanzas and peppering me with random questions.

I love it when he sings.

His questions are relentless, and he bounces from one topic to the next so quickly. To his chagrin I turn down the radio so I can more adequately respond to each inquiry, stay focused.

How long do you think you drove a car before you really felt comfortable driving?
What do you know of my dad's heart condition and medical history? 
What was the first concert you ever attended? The BEST concert?
How do you remember where to go when you drive places, you rarely use a map?
Did my Great Grandpa Ray have any twins in his side of the family of just my Great Grandma?
Exactly how many months did YOU have your braces? 
Uncle Cale? 
Aunt Annie? 
Were there colored rubber bands for braces then too?
What do you suppose my on base percentage is?
Did you see when Bo chased that foul ball, how he just threw down his toy bat and ran? 
How many days till football starts?
What about 3 on 3 basketball? I AM playing on that team, right?
Why do you think we lost tonight? I mean, what's your analysis?
Where is my pool pass anyway?
How do old people teach themselves how to date, you know, if they got married when they were young and then get divorced, and have to go on a date?
If you could take a trip to anywhere, where would you go?
Who is your best friend, anyway?

And then finally, approximately five miles outside of town, he shifts awkwardly in his seat, turns his head and falls into silence, popping up as a deer nearly scampers onto the interstate, and then again, silence.

My car transitions eventually from the interstate to the awkward exit ramp, and he pops up in his seat and says:

Don't you think I've evolved nicely, as a human, Mom?

I respond, "Of course, but what specifically are you speaking of?"

T Says:
"You know, how I used to be afraid of my skin showing for that one year, and how I was afraid of doing all these things and eating new things and trying new things, and now I am still afraid of a lot of those same things, but I am now that guy who only wears shorts 12 months a year!"

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