Small Joys That Last Forever

Anybody who knows me knows my son is the center of my universe.  They also know how hard he has worked all his life chasing his mile-high dreams. He played quarterback in high school, albeit second string.  He made the pros in baseball.  He’s dated supermodels and Playboy centerfolds.
Today he is in a countdown to what could very well be his launch into movie stardom.  Surreal doesn’t begin to describe the feeling, he says.  I feel that way too, but probably for much different reasons.  Of course I worry – that’s what doting moms do.  I worry he will be disappointed in fame, even destroyed by it. 

Yesterday he called to hear my reaction to one of the radio interviews he did on LA’s FOX sports station.  Perhaps unlike many parents, I change hats when he asks for my professional opinion about something.  If he uses too many verbal fillers, i.e., you know, really, very, etc., I get around to telling him that after I’ve given my overall impression.  He takes it in the spirit it is given and doesn’t do it in the next interview.  Yesterday’s interview was actually outstanding and I was proud and happy to tell him so.

I was not prepared for his next collection of words.

“Mom, I’m going to have to buy a house soon.  Too many people know where I live and they are starting to just show up at my door.  Some of the Hollywood opportunists are starting to smell success in my vicinity and want to latch on for the ride.”

We both knew this might happen if he was ever lucky enough to get a foothold in the business.  In one of the several ways he is similar to me, he is a gregarious loner; i.e., someone who enjoys other people, but in small doses.  He needs his privacy and downtime.

“Would you consider moving out here if I find a house with a separate guest house or apartment for you?”

My heart fluttered, my eyes welled, my tongue tied and my mouth wouldn’t speak.  He actually wants me to be near him.  He, too, dislikes the continental span lying between us now, but neither of us ever complain about it.

Earlier this week I described off-handedly how a man around his age had behaved rather disrespectfully to my exercise group at the gym.  I am always startled when he reacts so protectively, and this time was no exception.  He wanted the man’s name and number.  I assured him I handled it in my own not-too-subtle way and there was no need for his intervention.  I said I considered it just a little disrespectful on his part to assume I can’t take care of myself.  He has been like this since the first time he pulled his toy gun out of the holster of his cowboy costume on a state patrolman who had stopped me for speeding.

“You’ll have to decorate the house, of course,” he laughed.  “But the way I want it.  That will mean leather and little color.”  He prefers earth tones and hates pastels.
“I’ll just feel more comfortable if I can be close enough to help you out if you need it.  It’s always been my plan.  And, I can take care of punks like the one who disrespected you last week.”
I cannot adequately describe the joy this conversation gave me.