Conversations With Our Son

It is only now hitting me that I will soon be able to casually toss out the words “my son”. And what excellent words those are.

Having lived in Girl World for, well, 43 years, and in a parental role of said world for eleven years, I knew not of these boys you speak of. Girl World? A different country. Lovely nonetheless, but entirely foreign land to Boy World, with minimal overlap.

Sorry, but you can’t have this guy. We got dibs.

I have really not met a kinder, more easygoing young teenager. Ever. Parenting this sweet boy feels like a big phat gift (15-odd years behind the curve, note how effortlessly that slang rolls off my tongue/fingers).

A couple of days ago, I told him that his first work-for-hire in America would be to paint the inside of his closet any color/s he wanted. Last night as I tucked him into bed, he told me, “I am thinking about what color I will paint my closet.”

Eight shades of stoically psyched, methinks.

The verdict is leaning toward green walls, purple shelves, and chalkboard paint on the inside of the door.

It’s only a matter of time until I paint my own closet to be just like him.

Additionally, today’s father-son motocross outing (a really big deal in 13-yr-old boy world–motocross only comes to this area about once a year) has set the scene for our future living room decor.

Objet d’art.

Alosa: “I am thinking there needs to be a little bit of me in Party Central.”

Julia: “Yes.” (Presses fingers to lips, glances to ceiling as if it will reveal the exact location of spare frames languishing about the American apartment.)

[Sound of odd pop song suddenly blaring from Joe’s smartphone.]

Julia: “What are you doing?”

Joe: “Checking for motocross.”

Can’t talk. Researching.

Party on, Wayne.


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