Independence Reclaimed

This morning my fifteen-year-old son was awake and downstairs by 6:30am, filling an eight inch bowl with "red box" Joe's O's. That's the smaller box that packs a large punch, with nine grams of fiber, six grams of protein, vitamins and minerals galore. 

This was destined to be a big day for my not-so-little-one.

Twenty minutes later, as I was packing my lunch, I noticed that he'd begun gathering together the items he would need for his day: his MacBook and charger, a composition book, a spiral, a few writing tools, his bike helmet, and gloves. Despite the cloudy weather, and Dad's offer of a ride to school, he seemed determined to bike independently. That was how he'd traveled to and from school for three-quarters of his freshman year, until in-person school abruptly ended.

I peeked through the slightly-ajar bathroom door to see that he was trimming his fingernails, and preening a bit, making sure that he looked presentable for his grand return. This is my chance, I thought. 

"Hey Bud," I offered, "what if you try some of that dry shampoo? It will take care of the shine." Heaven forbid I should call it grease, but what fifteen year old boy's entire head isn't oozing with oil?

He hesitated a couple of seconds, "Oh...kay. I guess." At which point I pulled a total MOM on him. 

I sprayed all over his scalp, back and forth, lifting up bangs, then sides, and finally under the hair dragging on his neck. Before he knew what had happened, I was running a brush through his hair, sweeping his now-silky bangs across his forehead to one side. Pressing my luck.

"GET OUT!" he demanded, grabbing his comb, and in three determined strokes he restored the straight-bang look that he's worn ever since pre-school.

"Have a great day!" I called out over my shoulder as I headed to the front of the house, destined for my own big day back in a building. 

He may have grunted, "You too." I can't be sure.