One night last year I got a call from my son. Not to worry, I thought, he just wants money. As I reached for my checkbook, he laughed and said, "Hey, Mom, Vicki and I are pregnant!"
This is from my baby, the nine-pounder who fell into my life only nineteen short years ago! My mouth went dry; I couldn't speak. How could I feign happiness when all I could think of was calling a plastic surgeon?
"Alan, that's wonderful!" I croaked. How can you do this to me? I thought. I have a terrific life -- a great career, no worries, and a boyfriend who's twelve years younger than I am!
The next eight months passed far too quickly. Before I was even ready to acknowledge the fact I was going to become a, well, uh . . . never mind, I got another call from Alan. It was nine-thirty on a Thursday night and I was lounging in bed, fantasizing about an upcoming rendezvous with Mr. Twelve Years Younger. In fact, I expected his voice on the other end when I picked up the receiver (he always had a thing for steamy phone sex).
The bottom dropped out of my stomach. Another potential quarterback had come to fill my life with . . . joy! That's the word I wanted, I told myself firmly. How positively thrilling to know my son and his wife were experiencing the wonders of first parenthood. After hearing that the babe was neither blue nor attached at the hip to a Siamese twin, I cooed proudly into the receiver and said my good-byes.
I tumbled into a grease pit of dismay. What was I going to do? Now that my eldest son was a father, it might seem a little iffy to maintain I was still on the sunny side of thirty-five, not to mention trying to explain my appetite for Led Zepplin and red licorice! And what about all my mini's? This was going to be difficult. How would I break it to my boyfriend?
The phone rang again and I picked it up on the second ring, knowing who it was and dreading the announcement I had to make. But wait a minute, I thought, if I kept my compulsive mouth shut, how would he ever know? He effectively avoided my entire family anyway; maybe I could just pretend it never happened.
"Hello? Yeah, I know it's been busy. My, uh, my son called." (I told you I was compulsive.)
A forty-three-year-old woman in tears is one thing, but had anyone videotaped me at the moment, I would cheerfully have garroted her and eaten her for dinner. I whined, I sobbed, I behaved like a spoiled debutante who had no date for the prom.
And what did Mr. Twelve Years Younger do?
He laughed at me.
It was the last time he ever got the chance. I don't know; maybe becoming a . . . g- g-, well, you know . . . had readjusted my priorities or something. Suddenly a man who wore hightops with the tongues and laces flopping and hung bloated foam dice from his rearview mirror had less appeal.
Perhaps now I'll settle for a mature, intelligent guy -- one who's only five years my junior. Let's see, that would make him . . . . Maybe he'd believe I had my son when I was fourteen?
No comments:
Post a Comment