She watched the wine slosh from side to side, and wondered how close it could get to the top without spilling over. Maybe she should have said she was the Tooth Fairy. It might have been easier to explain. “I take the stuff in my head, and I put it down on paper. Although I suppose technically, I’m a typer and often a deleter. That’s not to be confused with a repo guy. They get paid when they take things away.”

“So you don’t have a real job? Must be nice.”

“Jiminy Cricket told me that I couldn’t because I tell too many lies. I’ve had a few nose jobs. Occupational hazard. Last time I asked for one like Jennifer Aniston’s. She has a great nose.” She knew what constituted a real job. It was only a matter of time before he asked.

“So writing—what does that pay?” We have a winner.

“Hahahahaha.  No really, you’re killing me. The commute is good, though.” Every job had its perks. Unfortunately she had to clean up her own office, and there was no cafeteria in the building. She measured the distance between herself and the bar. He was blocking the way.

“What do you write?” he asked.

“I’m working on a novel.” She braced herself for the next question and hoped she would be wrong this time.

“Is it anything like 50 Shades of Gray? Wink, wink.” She wasn’t.

“It’s more like a cross between the Girl with the Dragon Tattoo and The Five People You Meet in Heaven. It would make a great movie for Sandra Bullock.”  She let him wrap his head around that one. “In the meantime, I blog.”

“Oh I know,” he said. “You’re one of those Mommy Bloggers who write about feminist issues and cute things their kids say. Have I read anything you’ve written?”

So he had her there.  She’d been accused of writing about her son’s laundry once too often, but he didn’t have to know that. “I’ve had a couple of stories published in Baby B’Funny and Angrywoman.org. I’m working my way up to It’s a Mad Mad Mad Mad Mom, but I’m waiting for my son to do something really stupid, like date.”

“Doesn’t your son resent you writing about him?”

“Not at all,” she said. “He’s thrilled. He takes my essays to school and reads them out loud at lunch. He’s so proud.” Writers make good liars, she thought. After all, they believed their own stories. “In the meantime, I just make up stuff about him. It’s what I do with everyone.” She knew that would wipe the grin off his face.

“You’re not going to write about this conversation, are you?”

“No, of course not. Why would I do that? Excuse me while I jot a few notes.”

“I think I need a refill,” he said.

“Finally,” she sighed. “Works every time.”

Words by J. B. Everett

Photograph “Cocktail Time” by Ambernambrose © 2010 Creative Commons

“Is it prom already?” he says.

That is when I realize that he has no clue that tomorrow is Mother’s Day.

“Nope, I don’t think so. Maybe they’re buying them for their mothers.”

He gives me the look. “Ha ha. Very funny Mom.”

He honestly thinks that I’m yanking his chain. At least I think so. I consider for a moment that he could be yanking my chain–that he knows that tomorrow is Mother’s Day. Perhaps this is all a big ruse to throw me off track.

“It’s got to be prom,” he repeats.

While we’re waiting in line at Subway, I finally break down.

“It’s not prom, you know.” He looks at me blankly. “Tomorrow is Mother’s Day, but you knew that didn’t you?” Of course he didn’t. I just wanted to see that oh crap look on his face. I’m such a good Mom.

“No joke?” I just smile. In grade school, the kids write poems and make cards. Once they hit middle school the curriculum enforced mother worship is a thing of the past. I personally think that’s why mothers stop volunteering after sixth grade. Just saying.

“That’s why your Dad is taking me out for dinner tonight.” My husband blew it the first Mother’s Day and learned his lesson. Take care of your wife. A teenaged boy is about as useful as a newborn when it comes to Mother’s Day. Dinner is cheap in comparison to a week of motherly pissed offedness.

He gives me a fist bump. “Go Dad.” After some consideration, he says, “You shouldn’t feel bad. You have that poem I wrote for you on your office wall. That’s got to count for something.”

I do love the poem. It is very cute. He wrote it in fifth grade. He forgets that it’s not on my wall anymore. He made me take it down lest someone see. “The one that mentions how much you love Kanye West?”

He shushes me. “Okay, so it’s a little old.”

I give him my saintly-mother smile. “I’d be happy to put it back up again.” The poem also mentions that I make him take out the trash. He does love me so.

We get our subs and head to Starbucks. They are  running a promotion – half price Frappuchino. “I’ll buy you one,” he says as he pulls out a Starbucks gift card he got for Christmas.

As we’re waiting for our drinks, he says “You know what’s funny? You gave me that gift card, so you’re sort of buying your own coffee.”

“I feel so special,” I reply.

But the truth is, I do. I’ve just spent the last thirty minutes hanging out with my son. We spend a lot of time together. We talk over dinner and keep track of baseball scores. He pesters me while I read, and I nag him while he plays video games. It’s all good.

He puts an arm around me. “I’m hugging you in public.”

“Is there anyone you know here?” I ask.

“Of course not,” he answers.

“Dad is making me breakfast tomorrow, too,” I tell him.

“Okay,” he says. “Make sure you wake me up when it’s ready.”

Words by J. B. Everett

Photograph “Hmmmm Frappuchino” by Jeroen Bennink © 2007 Creative Commons

Okay. I’ll get right on that.

Your husband already ran this morning.

Have you looked at our stats lately? I could sleep for the next four days and he wouldn’t catch up.

He works.

So do I.

He gets paid.

That’s a low blow.

You don’t send me flowers anymore.

I never sent you any in the first place. You have one built in.

Smooches Jeannine. Get moving!

That’s sort of passive aggressive don’t you think?

You’ve climbed 2 flights of stairs. That’s the equivalent of the world’s largest Tic Tac

Now you’re just being mean. There is no world’s largest Tic Tac. I Googled it.

We don’t talk anymore. It’s like I don’t even exist.*sob*

Look Fitbit, I take you everywhere I go. I check my status during the day and adjust my activity level to make sure I get my steps in. This is what you wanted, isn’t it?

So what you’re saying is that we’re linked at the hip, I nag you and you ignore me, but you might as well do what I say because in the long run I’m right and you’re better off?

Yes, I suppose you could say that.

I’ve become your mother! I feel so special.

Mine bakes cookies.

Then you really better get moving.  *hugs* Call me later.

Words by J. B. Everett

Photograph by Marisa McClellan © 2012 Creative Commons

Original quote (in quotes) by Brian Jacques

Photograph “Pollack” by Fling93 © 2006 Creative Commons

Wherever you park your car

Foul ball target

Words by J. B. Everett

Photograph - “Reflections” by Chapendra © 2007 Creative Commons

He said he really didn’t want much, which is a departure from his younger days when he started a list the day after Christmas and edited daily. He’s content, which makes me glad.

I watched a number of videos of the dude as a toddler. He’s changed so much, and yet I see so much of the man he is becoming in the child he once was. So, since he asked for so little this year, I’ll ask for a few things in his name.

1. Please let him be safe. So many events feel random, and being a bystander becomes a more dangerous occupation each year. If this is all he gets, it would be enough. At least for me.

2. Give him time. Adulthood is long. Let him appreciate being young while he’s young. The rest will come soon enough, and sometimes it sucks. So does being a teenager, but he doesn’t have to pay taxes.

3. Keep his sense of humor intact. Otherwise, I’ll have to make stuff up about him. He won’t like that. It will also help him keep perspective when things get rough. It certainly makes life more entertaining.

4. Keep his heart open. He wears his heart on his sleeve. He also uses a sleeve as his napkin. His heart will suffer for being so unprotected, but please let it keep growing.

5. Let him learn from mistakes, but never be afraid of making them. This is one he could use now. Both parts.

6. Let him see that it is never too late. Even when it seems like it. It may be harder, and take longer, but there are many paths up the mountain, and they all end at the same place.  He also may not end up where he expected, but that doesn’t mean it’s not where he’s meant to be. Let him enjoy the view while he’s there.

7. Let him remember how much he is loved. If there are limits to how much a parent can love a child, I haven’t found it yet. Even when he’s being an idiot. And that says a lot.

Being his mother has been the best job, ever. He made it easy. So Happy Birthday dude. You can drive the Prius, and you’re welcome.

Words by J. B. Everett

Original quotes (in quotes) by Gene Fowler

Photograph “Death of the Keyboard” by wizitux ©2010 Creative Commons

Because these days you get one

For just showing up

Words by J. B. Everett

Photograph “Trophies” by AlaskaTeacher ©2008 Creative Commons

I don’t know what it is, but Boston wedged itself in my heart. It really shouldn’t have.

First of all, the weather sucks. We moved into our house in April. It had been a warm winter for Boston, and Spring came early. By mid-April it was in the 70′s every day. One sunny Saturday I put plants out on our deck. Basil, and petunias and some Impatiens. I even got a sunburn.

Two days later we got two inches of snow.

Every year after that, Boston got epic levels of the white stuff. I grew up in Michigan, so I’m no stranger to blizzard conditions, but not until Boston did I understand what a white out really looked like. I remember when I was little, reading the “Little House” books, I wondered why everyone got all tragic when Pa had to go to the barn during a snowstorm. After Boston, I got it. One time I walked to the dude’s school during a storm to get him and wasn’t sure if I was even going in the right direction. I planned ahead, however. I had Oreos packed in my coat pockets. It took an hour and a half to get one mile.

Boston has  too much traffic, and the drivers are awful. I know that every city says their drivers are awful, but in Boston, it’s true. And they’re proud of it. The street names change every two miles. Giving directions is not simple. Turn left on Waltham, but then it turns into Ridge, then Forest, and then Park, but just keep going until you get to Lowell, which looks like it should be Bow, but it’s not. Just trust me. Don’t even get me started on people that run red lights, traffic circles or Storrow Drive.

The road construction was endless. There were so many detours, even the Garmin got pissed off. Recalculating. Again. What’s wrong with you people?

And yet, here I am in Virginia, and my basement wall is painted like the Green Monster. The dude has Patriots stuff all over everywhere. I stream The River, which is the only decent radio station in the universe, from every electronic device I own, and I feel a rush of pride when I hear “Dirty Water.” I miss the accent, and Wilson Farms, and Crane Beach, which is actually in Ipswich, but it’s close enough.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m happy in Virginia. I have an amazing group of friends that make my heart light. I can run year-round. The dude can play baseball Spring, Summer and Fall. In so many ways, I’m happier than I’ve ever been in my lifetime. Yet, when everything went down in Boston last week, it felt personal.

I will never understand the heinous things people do, or how they rationalize their actions. I do know this–they messed with the wrong city. I’m not the first to say it, or even the most eloquent. That would be Dennis Lehane.  Boston is the most stubborn, f*** you, this is me, take-it-or-leave-it city I have ever known. And in the few years that I called it home, it left a mark on me that will last forever.

Love that dirty water. Boston Strong.

The city of Boston is observing a moment of silence at 2:50 p.m. this afternoon in honor of the victims of Monday’s bombing. Find a moment today to do the same, and pray for peace and understanding.

J. B. Everett