The last summer #3

The summer of ’99 offered him his first real job, a whole other dimension beyond household chores.

I must say he was braver than I was at his age. He talked to managers and asked for applications when a 17-year-old Monica had been terrified to even walk in the door. I admired him for that skill.

One afternoon, I watched him talk to a prospective employer on the telephone. The little boy was a man, although a young one, ready to enter the real working world. A sad, yet thrilling moment, unlike any other we’ve shared.

Suddenly, he looked at me and posed that unexpected question:

“Do you need to talk to my mother?”

Oh, I was a bad mommy. I burst out laughing and hurried to another room where I went on hysterically for several minutes. That simple question plus his sincere expression had restored my seat on that eternal throne as his mother, no matter what he does, no matter where he goes. At that moment, I knew that I had given him a tool of self-confidence every time he goes in for those big interviews in life. He’ll have that humorous memory to put him at ease.

I didn’t have to wait until his high school graduation to see if I did an adequate job in the mothering department. I had a full summer to monitor how both of us were progressing, whether he was ready to go out into the world alone, and if I was ready to let him go. We’re getting awfully close.

But shaving? A razor? No, honey, I don’t think you’re ready for that. Trust your mother on this. I’ll tell you when that cute little mustache ought to come off. Think of what a cute senior picture you’ll have .... Remember, son, mothers always get the final word ... cute, cute, cute ....