I have a 12-year-old son. He is beyond St. Nick, fairies, bunnies and monsters. And, now it would seem, the angelic patina surrounding his mother.
He hops in LaFonda the Honda Odyssey of ours and I ask about his day. As he turns my direction and opens his mouth to speak, he recoils. With eyes squinted in veritable disdain, he stares at me and judgmentally says, “Mom…you’ve got some….thing. Just, aughhhh, just look in the mirror!” And with that, he averts his eyes in disgust.
Now feeling like something featured on whatever special The Discovery Channel puts up against The Superbowl, I look in the mirror. Granted my cave wasn’t completely bat-free but it wasn’t as if I had an Egg Mc Muffin tucked in my nostril. “What’s the BIG deal?” I wonder.
“Just use a napkin! Get a Kleenex! SOMETHING! Aw, sick!” he exclaims as if he were Louis Pasteur instead of the middle school boy who could easily recycle his lunch napkin a good 9 weeks if so inclined. I think they call that irony.
Then, it hit me. I remembered the time I remarked about my mother’s brown age spots on her hand and wondered why she got upset. Or the time, bothered by her moustache, I waxed her upper lip and accidentally scalded her, leaving a Hitler-esque scab the day before an important dinner. Or the Lee press-on debacle of ’93 where a reaction to the nail glue had her convinced that she had carpal-tunnel syndrome.
Maybe Karma is real. Too soon we forget that our mothers whose noses at times have a little something extra in them wiped ours, and other things as well.
So, I won’t take it too personally. It is always disorienting to find flaws in the women who gave us life. I just hope when all is said and done that the goodness will outshine the goatee in my son’s memories of me.