Long ago, when my boys were small, I loved to cook and listen to music while I cooked or did the dishes. It was a gilded room with many plants, not terribly large, but very cheerful. One of my favorite CDs to listen to was Paul Simon’s Greatest Hits, because there were so many sing-alongable, danceable songs on it (I still love it. Still play it and dance when no one is looking.) My youngest told me once that his vision of me from his childhood is that: mom dancing around the kitchen when no one was looking, smoking cigarettes, rubber gloves in the air. He loved to sneak up on me and scare me half to death.
He’d been telling me lately that he had a surprise for me. Now this child is a bit of a rebel. He plays bass guitar and has dredlocks down to the middle of his back. He also has a tattoo or so, which he keeps in the proper spots to be hidden in unlikely event he will take a job someday that requires him to look respectable. He arrived on Sunday and said, “Okay, you want to see your surprise?”
This was it:
How’s that for paying attention? And yes, he got the reaction he wanted. It totally choked me up.