We went on an expedition to Springfield today. It was Jim’s day off, and in honor of the event we were in search of fine mid-day sustenance and bent on performing some economic stimulus as well.
In spite of the fact that I have a quite good supply of glitter, my favorite sort of glitter is starting to be in short supply, so we had a side trip to the craft emporium planned as well as a stop at the book store. No matter how convenient Amazon and the other on-line book stores are, there is nothing quite like the smell and ambiance of a large space devoted entirely to the display and sale of books. We also had about two years accumulation of flourescent bulbs of various sorts that needed to be delivered to the recycler.
After we had visited the Big Box Warehouse store where we were able to find some flannel sheets that we absolutely had to buy that weren’t actually on our list, we flitted hither and yon about the little burg of Springfield, happily shopping and winding up at the Metropolitan Grill for a very excellent lunch.
As is our usual custom, we completely forgot to take along our electronic devices. Since we were both together in the car, we didn’t need the cell phone since the only thing we ever use it for is calling each other. It is really only a cell phone in name only because the battery will no longer hold a charge for more than about five minutes, and even less time if you are actually talking on it, so the only way it functions is if it is plugged in somewhere.
Needless to say, since it was only a short trip, we also forgot to bring the iPod, but that didn’t matter because we had lots of CDs in the car which we never bothered to play since we spent almost the whole day chatting pleasantly.
Among many other things, one of the subjects that came up was our son. We tend to talk about him quite frequently; after all, he is our son and we care about him. We wondered idly how his relationship status was progressing, mentioning in passing that it was sometimes very hard to know since he doesn’t share a lot of information with us.
I’m not sure he realizes that he has about 18 different “mothers” among my clients; many of them have seen him grow and develop, and all of them ask me on a regular basis how he is doing. Some of them nosily wish to know whether he has gotten married recently, if there is a child in the offing, and sundry other things of a personal nature.
I have to say that I believe that some of the interest in his possible parental status is motivated by their extreme joy in their own grandchildren and their compassion for my grandchild-less state. I’d love to have a grandchild or so to spoil, but ‘m willing to wait until he is in a space and relationship where that task is something that both he and his significant other want to take on.
So I was staring out the window, watching for hawks sitting hopefully in trees by the highway, and musing on my informationless state on the progress or lack thereof in his various girlfriend associates, and then suddenly, I just had to laugh.
Since we were traveling down the interstate at the time and there didn’t appear to be any humorous signs in the area, my husband asked me what was amusing me.
“Well,” I replied a little ruefully. “I was just thinking about how I don’t really know anything about what our son is doing regarding his girlfriends and how much that bugs me. And then I started thinking about how much I told my mother and father about my various and sundry alliances when I was in my pre-marital life stage. Mostly I didn’t bother them with details, figuring that the less they knew about my activities the happier they would probably be.”
“And you were probably right about that,” my husband interjected.
“Well, I was just remembering how they found out that I had gotten married the first time.” Of course, Jim knows we eloped in secret, having the local federal court judge (who also happened to be the tympani player in the Fairbanks Symphony Orchestra where I enjoyed being a violist) marry us one fine Saturday morning in his chambers. Our two best friends were our witnesses, and following the ceremony all four of us repaired to our apartment where we enjoyed cheesecake and champagne. After a suitable interval, our guests went home, my groom and I consummated our marriage, and then he got in the van and headed off down to Delta Junction, where he had a job on the Pipeline. I didn’t see him again for six weeks.
After he had left, I started thinking about the whole thing, and thought I should let my mother know about my change in status, so I walked down the alley to my landlord’s house and asked if I could use his phone to call my mom and let her know I had gotten married that day. Once I had promised to make the call collect, I was allowed across the threshold and introduced to the phone.
I called Mother, and after the formalities of accepting the collect charges were over, she inquired as to how I was, if everything was all right.
“Oh, I’m fine, Mamma,” I informed her with the cheer of champagne and sex illuminating my tones. “You’ll never guess what I did this morning!”
“No, I probably won’t,” she agreed. “So why don’t you just tell me?”
“I got married!” I informed her gleefully.
“What?? You got married!!” she said, shocked. “What did you do that for? Who did you marry?”
This peeved me slightly, as I had mentioned my intended at least two times in letters to her over the past six months. “Well, I married Pete, of course!” I informed her.
By the time I got to this part of relating the story to Jim, we were both laughing pretty hard.
“Obviously,” I managed to say between gales of laughter at my self and my utter need and desire to know what was going on in my son’s life and frustration because I’m not being told, “I really didn’t think that my mother needed to know about my relationships. Why should I be surprised that I am not getting told much about my child’s relationships?”
“Yeah, Karma really sucks, doesn’t it?” was my dear husband’s consoling response.