If one more teacher at that high school sends something to me via email that even references the sentence "Senior year is almost half over!"..... well, I won't be held responsible for my actions. Actions that could very well include things like wailing like a banshee, pulling someones hair out (not my own, though; I'm rather partial to it), breaking very important typing fingers or kicking them in the shins (which, let's face it, is what these teachers should expect for reminding mamas all over the school district that their babies are growing up and leaving them), followed by a rousing game of Hide and Seek, where eventually everyone will find me curled into a tight little ball with his baby pictures surrounding me. Or something like that.
In my saner (more sane? eh *shrug*) moments, I realize that despite my best efforts this boy is going to grow up. He is going to grow into a man that is not going to be living with his mother. With any sort of luck or careful thinking on his part, he will become a man who lives on his own first, so as to learn how to care for himself and not rely solely on batting his beautiful golden lion's eyes at someone to get them to cook for him.
And so I remind myself that he needs to learn to cook. I even force myself to make him do it on occasion, too. For example, last week he made the most amazing turkey-vegetable soup. We all had seconds! And there are no leftovers still in the fridge! Oh, bonus... he used the crock pot to perform this amazing feat! Woohoo....go me! I've ensured my boy can make more than just ramen noodles and scrambled eggs (although, he does that in the microwave; does it really count?)!
And we'll just keep quiet about the part of this story where I should 'fess up to the fact that the only reason he made dinner in the first place is that I forgot to put everything together and into the crock pot before I left for work that morning and called him when he got home from school to ask for his help. And walked him through every step. And laughed myself silly when I hung up the phone because he uttered this sentence:
Celery salt....Season salt... it's all the same thing. Salt's salt, right?
I'm actually hoping we get to have many more conversations like that when he does eventually move out; for two reasons. One, it will mean that even though he's grown he still wants to turn to me for advice.
Two? Well, maybe my cooking is *quite* as bad as I'm fairly certain it is......