My middle child of my Octane Trio born in the gas pump years 1987, 1989, and 1993 called me this morning after we’d played phone tag while he was moving his family into their new house on the South Carolina coast on his birthday yesterday.
“Mom, I had a wonderful birthday – ate a huge plate of crab legs at The Boathouse for dinner last night. But we got into a long conversation about who exactly should be wished a happy birthday. And I want to congratulate you on having me. Happy birthday, Mom. You did all the birthing. I just showed up. So happy birth day.”
This is my most polite child, the one who always thinks of others before himself. He admitted to two beers with dinner.
“So how old are you, Mom?”
I told him.
“Holy cow! You need to retire. Travel. See the world while you still can…..”
I reminded him that I’ve seen a lot of the world already and that his stepfather is six years older than I am.
“Jesus is coming, anyway, Mom. He’ll be here soon, but I just hope He waits until we’ve had some time to enjoy the new house. And until you’ve traveled some more.”
Another long pause. This is our love language – and there’s an unforgettable reason for the pi$$ing match. I say this to him every single year on his birthday: “Let me remind you that you entered this world peeing all over your own mama!”
We laughed together and said our I love yous before we hung up…..just as we do every time he calls at random and unexpected times to say that he loves me and to tinkle on my day, filling my heart with joy.