When Good Sons Go Bad

Once upon a time when
he DIDN'T think I was
boring and NOT funny!

  I was crushed! I was heart-broken. I pouted like a child. (My daughter informed yesterday that I AM a child with raccoon-like tendencies, but I digress.) I was so cranked-off, I refused to take pictures of his smug, too-skinny face! (Not that you could have seen it because of all the freakin’ hair anyway, but NOT the point.) Yes, last night my middle son came over for dinner…and was a TOTAL ass-hat!

  As hubby stood at the kitchen sink washing corn to toss on the grill, he was playfully teasing Middle about his lack of parental visitations. THAT’S when IT happened…

Hubby: “So why don’t you come visit your Mom more? What, do you think we’re boring or something?”

Middle: “Actually, yes. You guys ARE boring.” (Just like that…like he was saying, “Why yes, the sky IS blue.”)

Me: “I am NOT boring! I’m FUN!”

Middle: “No, you’re not. And you’re not funny either.”

Me: *horrified gasp*

The Boy: “If you think she’s not funny now, you should try being here in the morning when she’s writing her blog. She even reads them out loud. That’s when she’s REALLY not funny.” (Dude, you are TOTALLY grounded.)

Mr. Ass-hat who no longer thinks
Mom is fun!

The Girl: “I think her posts are funny.” (She is SO getting a raise in her allowance!)

  That was pretty much when my pouting began…and lasted until I woke up this morning. (OK, until about five minutes ago. The ungrateful little dirt-muncher!)

  In the early light of a new day, I now understand what the real problem is and I am free to make peace with Middle’s inconsiderate comments. The sad truth is he simply has no taste! (What else could it be?)

  I didn’t fail as a Mother to raise a loving son who longs to visit and bask in the glow of my Motherly concern as I fuss over him in feeble attempts to stuff every bit of food in the house into his 6’3”, 150 pound frame…No. He just got the “no taste” gene from the Y chromosome side of the equation! *deep sigh of relief*

  It’s really kinda funny. I did OK with the first little bird flying from the nest. I was as supportive of his independence as any Mom has EVER been in the entire history of the Universe.  I have even resisted the urge to call him and nag incessantly about the fact he only stops by every three weeks or so. I don’t even text more than once a week!

  Maybe that’s been the whole problem? Did I make “breaking away” too easy for him? Should I have sobbed uncontrollably, holding onto the hem of his pants as he drug me across the kitchen floor on his way out the door? Is this the only option left to him to assert his independence? Pfft! (If that’s the case, I truly pity the next child to move out…)

  There is one small thing I do know without a doubt, *cue music from my favorite M&M’s commercial of all time*

  I’m funny and I know it! ba ba ba bababa ba ba ba bababa I crack jokes! ba ba ba bababa ba ba ba bababa Giggle giggle giggle giggle giggle giggle giggle….*falls over on keyboard laughing like moonshine looped hyena*