You Want My Keys?

It’s amazing how fast time passes. It seems like just yesterday that I was holding my son’s hand as I walked him into his first day of kindergarten. He had been so cute, with a face that was dominated by big brown eyes and an innocent smile, I had thought things would stay that way forever.

Gosh, what a fool I was.

This Friday I took him to the Secretary of State so he could get his driver’s permit. No longer the tiny youth who had clung to me, now he’s a good couple of inches taller than me and has a whole lot of cocky teenage confidence. He does have those same brown eyes though, so at least I have that.

I pulled into the parking lot and we both groaned when we saw all the cars. Grabbing books, we made our way inside. As he stepped inside, he literally walked into a girl about his age. Giggling nervously and flushing, she told him she couldn’t wait any longer and offered him her number. He smiled back at her and took it. While I was dismayed to see that my baby could now use his charm to get favors, I got over it quickly when I saw his number was 82. Since the people behind us pulled number 105, I said a silent prayer of thanks to teenage flirtation.

Somehow we managed to find a couple of seats together, despite the fact the place was wall-to-wall people. Every one of them had the same bored, put upon expression. I wonder if in the entire history of the Secretary of State has there ever been an instance where someone didn’t have to wait?

“Sweeeeeeeeeeeet…..” my son drawled under his breath.

“Oh, dear God,” I sighed. “I don’t want to know what you’re talking about, do I?”

“Look to your left, next row up.” He snickered.

There was a girl around his age and her pants were hanging so far down in the back, she was smiling at us. I was caught like a deer in the headlights, unable to look away as I thought, Now, why doesn’t she pull her pants up? There is no way she can’t feel the breeze.

“They’re almost to my number!” my son exclaimed, suddenly. “Here hold my book.”

“Why?” I asked. “It’s not like they’re going to make you do a handstand before they give you the permit.”

“I have to do my vision test.” He rolled his eyes at me. How had I ever thought they could have been innocent and sweet at one time.

“You’re not going to have to sign the letters. So I don’t see why I have to hold your book.” By now several bystanders were laughing at our banter. Nice to know we can provide all these suffering souls with entertainment.

Lucky for us our number was called next. After a short time, son had his permit proudly in one hand and the other one outstretched. I took a step back, defensive, because I knew what he wanted. Oh dear God, the horror. Boy wanted my keys.

Swallowing my fear, I handed them over. As I walked out, several people gave me sympathetic looks. I think one or two may have uttered a prayer for me. Son didn’t notice, too excited to get out to the car and finally become Master of the Highway.

“Just think, Mom.” He grinned. “We have at least fifty hours of drive time together before I can get my license. I’m going to be driving all the time now.”

Oh, yippee! I just hope I survive those hours. Pray for me.

-Stephani

But there isn't any snow.

About three weeks ago I was cooking dinner when my high-school son walked in.

“Hey, I have to stay after school tomorrow, we have ski practice.”

Perplexed, I looked out the window. “Hate to break it to you kiddo, there’s no snow.”

He rolled his eyes at me, it’s something ever teenager has mastered to the point of perfection. “We know that, Ma.”

I rubbed my aching head with my hands, something every parent of a teenager has mastered to the point of perfection. “Okay, I’ll bite. How can you ski if there isn’t any snow?”

“We’re going to be doing dry-land conditioning. You know, running, weightlifting, that kind of stuff.”

“Weightlifting?” I echoed. "I don’t recall any muscle heads going down the slopes at the Olympics."

“Whatever. Can I stay or not?”

“Stay where?” my husband asked as he walked in the door.

“Ski practice.” By now my son had gone past the point of eye rolling phase to the hands-thrown up-in-disgust phase.

“But, there’s no snow.”

“They’re going to pump iron.” I replied.

“Since when do you want to join the ski team?” hubby quizzed the boy.

“I’ve always loved to ski and I thought this would be cool. Not only that, the whole team gets to wear cool Spyder coats.”

Yeah, that was his incentive. Forget school spirit, forget the varsity letter, forget the scholarship. My son wanted to be on the team for a flipping coat.

“If you want to join, that’s fine by me,” I conceded. “Just don’t go and do something stupid like break a leg.”

The next day, I walked in from my day-job to find the boy sitting on the couch, a look of despair and embarrassment on his face. One foot was propped on a pillow and there was an ice bag on it.

“What in the hell happened?” I dropped my briefcase and went over to inspect the damage.

“I hurt it at ski practice,” he spoke so low it was almost a whisper.

“The ski practice with no snow?”

The eyes rolled again as he let out a deep sigh. “Yes, that would be the one.”

“But, how?”

“I zigged and my foot zagged. I think I may have sprained it.”

Sprained it? His foot was the size of a football. I uttered the sentence all parents dread, “I think we need to go the emergency room.”

We made the short drive to the ER, the entire way he didn’t say a word. Too upset by thoughts of a lost Spyder coat for idle chit-chat. As the nurse was wheeling him back to his room, she asked how he did it.

“Ski practice,” I announced cheerfully, eagerly waiting her response. Her brow wrinkled in confusion.

“But there isn’t any…”

“…snow,” my son finished. “I know, I know.”

Long story short, the poor kid broke his foot and is going to have to spend the next six weeks in a cast. The sad thing is he can’t even say he was injured during a big ski meet because he was out before one single flake hit the hill. Good news, he will be out of the cast for the last half of the season.

Does this mean he only gets half a jacket?