My Sid

Parenting is the most wonderful, rewarding, horrifying and scary ride anyone will ever take.  I can understand why lots of people choose not to do it.  Me?  I'm all about complicating my life, so at a ridiculously early age, I chose to go ahead with the experience.  Sid is my oldest.  He's often gotten the best of me, often gotten the worst and we've learned and grown up together along the way.  I love him fiercely, and as an aside that's just as important, I like him very much.  I think he likes me too, though we'd both readily admit that hasn't always been the case… for either of us.  Anyone that tells you that teenagers are always likable is an utter liar and should never be trusted.   Same goes for anyone that says that about me.

So,while I'm contemplating going through my early mid-life crisis, he decides to move out.  I immediately wanted to curl into the fetal position and begin creating scenarios of him dead in the street, dead in his new place, dead on the highway.  Then I decided I was being morbid and just imagined him incarcerated for life, possibly featured on  "Lockup: Raw".    As a legal adult, he can do what he pleases and has enough of my DNA for me to be sure that nothing I say is ever going to stop him from what he decides.    I generally like to pull the authority card and talk/argue circles around people until they are confused enough to just throw their hands in the air, but this was tricky.  I'm glad I didn't. 

Truth be told, we were at a crossroad.   I could be supportive of the fact he's working, wants to be independent and start his own life.   Hmmm.  On the other hand, I could always guilt him, fake health problems,  bribe him with lasagna,  then cut him off for not listening to my rational reasons as to why he's not ready and never see him again. (What do you want?  I'm Latin.  It's our way.)   For once in my life I gave up the control and chose properly.    I'm pleased to say that after three weeks he's still alive, working and not in prison.  I'm patting myself on the back for having done something right.  Laugh if you will, but these days as a parent, any small victory is worth celebrating.  

We spent the day together, my boy and I.  We ate lunch at the The Vortex  (which he's never been able to get into due to his age, and boy, did that burn him up beyond belief ) and as we noshed on fried zucchini,  I sat and listened to him discuss the stress of roommates, bills and cleaning duties.  So surreal, it was all very grown up.  Then we shot over to Memorial Tattoo, where he had his hideous first attempt at a tattoo fixed by the wonderful Jason Kelly. (Seriously, y'all,  this business is run by good people and full of  great artists.  If you haven't been, go.)   After that,  he miraculously reverted to neediness, so I took pity and bought the skinny kid some groceries.  Don't judge me, he's really that skinny and after all, I'm the mothering type.  And yeah, it really was just an excuse to see the inside of his new residence.   THAT, however, is another blog altogether.   Neat freaks should never visit such places. 

So now I can rest a bit easier tonight, even though he's not with me.  Because after all,  it's a comfort  to know that a year ago he was 170% dipshit.  Now he's only 40%.   That is a vast improvement and I think he'll make it after all.    

And to think I'll have to do it all over again with the next one.  Phew.