RSS FeedTo say Mom was listening with only half an ear would be giving her far more credit than was due. That's not really a judgment of her, I suppose; you know how moms are sometimes. And I am sure there are moments when Junior has her undivided, if feigned, interest and mostly full attention.
Today was not that day.
I listened and watched as he tried valiantly, but unsuccessfully, to get her to hear anything he was saying…just some small acknowledgment of his accomplishment, or that he was even standing there at all. But, with efficiency that only comes with practice, she was able to ignore him entirely, not so much as even pretending interest with an occasional distracted, "hmmm….."
Suddenly my mind leapt back through the years to another young architect of wondrous contraptions which, theoretically at least, were brilliantly innovative and could surely be patented today, affording me the lifestyle to which I would like to be accustomed, if only I'd had the wisdom and forethought to save the blueprints. Alas, I did not. After a respectable amount of time spent Scotch-taped to the refrigerator they were surreptitiously relegated to File 13. (I can't help it; I have this thing about the fridge being cluttered.)
They were fantastically detailed drawings, though; arrows and labels and stages of operation stating in detail the nuts and bolts of whatever the thing was. Despite my silent misgivings to the contrary, my young son would describe them at great length, quite confident that each would operate flawlessly, if only he had the parts to construct them. Although I actually admired them at the time, listening fairly well most days, and attributing what I was certain was a superior intellect to his having been able to conjure them up, I could not have told you what they were to save my life.
Fond memories of the past tightened my throat and, with watery eyes, I looked back at Mom and Junior, feeling sorry for them. I wished she would listen. Or smile. The days flee away and they are both missing so much.
To shut him up she finally interrupted his monologue with a demand that he help her select the cheese: Did he want Gouda or Muenster? (Like an eight-year-old knows the difference, or wants anything other than American anyway.)
As they walked away, I realized I love my son too much to wish childhood on him again. But if I had it to live it over I would pay more attention.
And I would keep the blueprints.
(c) 2014 – Heather Neill
Translate