karen rutherford, freelance writer

And available at Costco!The person who invented these is a genius and deserves a statue, an ode, a WIPO and a warm sudsy soak in his/her honor. I’m sad, though, because my grandmother would have love-love-loved one.

I wanted to make sure Austin knew how much I will appreciate one in my future.

“Hey, Austin, come look at this commercial.”

“And?”

“I want one of those in my wing when I move in with you in my old age.”

“You know where they have those? In nursing homes.”

“Not in the nursing homes I’ll be able to afford.”

“Well, you have a point. They do require indoor plumbing.”

“Thanks. I took care of your first eighteen years. You should take care of my last eighteen.”

“Eighteen? ARE YOU KIDDING ME? You need to make sure you go quickly.”

“When do you leave for school?”

“Not soon enough, not soon enough.”

I thought I was home free. Only two weeks to go, and I really haven’t felt all that emotional.

Until yesterday, that is, when he cleaned his room.

He has had a summer project to organize and purge, which he did and ended up with a pick-up truck full of stuff to donate and three lawn and leaf size bags of stuff to throw away. I saw little soccer and t-ball trophies poking out of one bag, but when I went to comment on not throwing his entire past away, he jumped down my throat for backpedaling.

The purging didn’t even hit me, because his room still looked like it belonged to the kid I’ve known for years.

Then, he had to go and clean it. Bed made. Clothes on hangers. Posters off walls. No junk on the computer desk or the nightstands or the armoire. No dishes or wrappers on the floor. Carpet! Hell, there were vacuum tracks.

There’s a song out there somewhere about a father who just sits in his daughter's room after she leaves. But I can’t go in there. There’s a floodgate that I’m pretty sure would take all of freshman year to plug. And I do have plans. And I still need to work.

I think I’ll make him start closing the door, though, because I know it’s just going to get worse from here, and I have a feeling I already may be taking it pretty hard.

18. Eight. Teen. The birthday sheet cake from Kroger paled in comparison to the homemade German chocolate cake made by Katie’s father. And you can’t unwrap a forgiven debt.

Of course he had to go as soon as I got home. He took the sheet cake and went to a friend’s house for a birthday spend-the-night bonfire and weenie roast. The cake came back home the next day with only ‘Happ’ visible.

We did have a lovely dinner at St. Elmo’s Steakhouse, though. It was the most we’ve talked in the past month.

He went to IU orientation and registered for classes. I didn’t want to go play the advertised parent-camp games, and he said it didn’t matter if I went, so I didn’t. But when he ran into some people we know who asked where I was, he told them that I told him he needed to go by himself. As if.

The biggest stress of financial paperwork: “I certify that I am registered with the Selective Service.” Penalty is prosecution and up to a $250,000 fine. I never thought I’d have to worry about this, but, I do, certainly now with this country’s collective karma upon us.

On to July, when I too will age another year, but, of course, oh, so gracefully.

_{*Alice Cooper lyric. Son's first concert. Whaddaya gonna do?}

This afternoon, Austin voted for the first time. We went together, because I insisted on having the memory.

Then, we stopped at CVS so HE – with his own money for the first time - could buy Mother’s Day cards to mail to Georgia. “Damn. It’s nuts what they charge for cards.”

Then, we had a conversation about moving this summer or staying put. He made it clear that he does not want to be a factor in my decision. “You need to decide this for yourself and do what you want to do. I’m going to be in Bloomington.”

Then, he left to go to work. (I’m “between projects.”)

Shaky, shaky ground.

It comes up in conversation more often now that the end of life as I have known it for seventeen years is closing in. The ultimate question I am asked is if I'm ready.

“How was your day?”

“Fine. Like every other day.”

“Anything exciting happen today?”

“I said no.”

“Got any homework?”

“Some."

"What do you want for dinner?"

"I don't care. Why are you bothering me?”

For days now (I’m thinking more than a week’s worth), my son's guitar has been sitting in its stand in front of the spare bedroom closet. Each morning and night, I fumble around it getting or returning clothes. And each day, I say something to him about moving it.

Yesterday, I tripped over it. I knew this would happen.

“I TOLD YOU a hundred times TO MOVE THAT DAMN THING. GET IN THERE AND MOVE IT. NOWWWW!”

He reappeared and said, “I moved it by the elliptical. There’s no danger of you being anywhere near it now.”

It’s my own fault, really.

I added text messaging to my son’s cell phone bill earlier this year. He had started doing it, “texting” I think the kids call it, only 10 or 20 times each month, so the added amount on my bill, before we officially added it to the plan, was minimal.

We’ve coasted along all year with right around his allotted 200 text messages. Cool beans.

Until now.

340. Three hundred. And forty.

And he’s a boy.
And he’s not a girl.
And he’s unemployed.
And he’s back in school (doesn’t he see these people every day?).
And he has a phone (obviously). And a voice. And a dialing finger (should be easier than the opposable texting thumbs).
And he’s been talked to about this before. In fact, just the other day, when I heard umpteen incoming buzzes in a row.

But he’s a good boy. And it seems trivial in the scheme of things.

Maybe I’ll make him dust or brush the dog or run get me something or Windex my car windows. Or all four. Two hours of work at $10 an hour, less the usual mama tax, should cover it.

But he’s a good boy.

“Ian and I are going tea shopping, so I’ll be home after that,” my near-17-year-old son called to tell me after school today.

Say whaaaaat???

After some investigation, I found out that Austin and Ian and a few other boys are going to Allen’s house tonight for an SAT study party and they’ve decided that the tea stands for the “T” in SAT. So they're going to drink tea and study (between video games, I suspect).

Ian was the obvious choice to go tea shopping because he’s British. And Austin’s on the rugby team which made him worldly-guy runner-up.

My contribution to the evening was the Applause-O-Matic Happy Meal toy I got today at McDonalds. It’s a pair of clapping hands they can use quizzing each other and doing what the “S” in SAT stands for: STUDY!!!!!!!!

The best way I’ve found to pin my son down alone for an hour or so is to make sure he and I meet for dinner somewhere once a month. I had been unsuccessful convincing him to go anywhere with me this week for Spring break, because, come to find out, most of his friends were staying in town. His social schedule was especially packed, but I managed to at least guilt him into our monthly dinner Wednesday.

(And next year, if I have to drug him, we’re going somewhere for his Senior Spring break. I am pretty well known for picking places and times that include some sort of festival. For example, this year I had tried to sell a visit to Washington, DC, which would have coincided with their Cherry Blossom Festival. This would have been fine two years ago, but not now. In a thoughtless moment, I mentioned the Festival and all bets were off. “You want me to do what?” I’m convinced that just the word is the deal breaker, not the week with the mother, so I’ll have to consider that in our plans. Or just use a different word.)

Anyway, Austin loves Red Lobster, so that’s where we went. And, as luck would have it, when we sat down, the waitress handed us our menus and singsonged, “It’s the last week of Lobsterfest! Order it while you can!”

A festival, after all. I win again. He was unaware and didn’t laugh when I explained what I was smiling about.

Then I thought of the time, years ago, when a cashier at Burger King told my ex-husband that they were out of Whoppers. The proclaimed Home of the Whopper was out of Whoppers? And now, Red LOBSTER won’t have LOBSTER? I swear - the longer I live, the more confused I get. What will replace it? Talapiafest? I’m betting it’s Shrimpfest, but I like the sound of a Talapiafest.

The marketing worked, because the frenzy was upon us. The last week! Now, I do know that Red Lobster doesn’t catch its fish from the same part of the ocean as the finer seafood restaurants, but I had no choice – we would order lobster. The $62 bill to come, after dinner, drinks, tips and taxes, was a small price to pay for such an occasion anyway. It was a festival, after all.

We try to eat before 5 pm here in Indianapolis, because of my disdain for crowded restaurants and people with unruly toddlers who should eat at home. This early dinnertime typically puts us in the respectful company of seniors and lone or coupled diners, with whom I love to be.

And this time, I noticed three women around us, each sitting alone. No books to read, no restless eye movements from not knowing where to look, no hurries. They were content and comfortable, just sipping their drinks and savoring their meals.

I mentioned that I wanted to be just like them. Austin assured me, “Oh, you will be. Don’t worry.” I took that as the complement it wasn’t meant to be.

So, $62 and an average seafood meal later, I had been comforted by my son’s company, these women, and the fact that we hadn’t missed the “fest” after all.

I got to go home and think of my future trip alone to the Smithsonian and the Cherry Blossom Festival. And, I plan to enjoy dining alone, thinking of the ladies at Red Lobster.

Austin got to leave and go hang out with his friends for yet another night.

A nice Spring break was had by all.

I will always remember our experience last week hosting an exchange student from Japan. But not for the reasons I thought I would. I loved having him and going through the entire process – my son going to Japan last year and this boy coming here to Indianapolis this year.

It was a priceless experience, but my biggest and most surprising reward was getting to know my own son again.

Since Austin started driving nine months ago, and really for at least a year of attitude before that, I have to be thankful for crumbs of information that give me glimpses into his life and who he is becoming. I know him, of course, but I don’t know how he is around other people, I don’t know what he does when I’m not around - things like that. I don’t know how he is as a human being going through his life anymore. I know what time he has to be her or there, when he’ll be home, when he needs money for gas, when to write a check for rugby dues - the mundane everyday stuff. But there is the, I suppose typical, teen-parent distance between us in the big picture sense. But by having a kid from a million miles away in the house, I learned more than I have in the past two years about my own son.

There were several events for the kids throughout the week, but the parents really only got involved at the farewell potluck dinner and the welcome and subsequent send-off at the airport. At those two events I got to talk to parents who knew my kid, kids who were friends with my kid, and I got to see my kid interact with the kids from Japan, the teachers and other parents and his friends.

A parent told me how grateful she was for Austin last year because her daughter had been treated badly by the other girls on their trip to Japan and Austin was the only one to be kind to both sides, which eventually led to a big reconciliation and a good time.

I met the girl who Austin asked to the prom. I only found out after the fact, though, that they were going together as I’m sure he didn’t want me saying anything in front of her or her mother. I met her mother and enjoyed them both immensely.

At one point during the potluck dinner, to which I had whined about going for an hour and to which he told me I had to go because it was the right thing to do, my son came to check on me to see if I had gone through the buffet line okay.

He was polite, thoughtful, and kind. He was mature and funny and at times, charming. He didn’t even seem embarrassed by me like he usually does.

I think we may become friends again. I hope so. I’m proud of him and I’m proud to know him.