It’s Sunday morning and T has come in to snuggle with me.
Every morning, school day or not, he comes in for a snuggle—even if only for a
few minutes. Weekends—especially Sundays—are sumptuous because there is no rush
to get ready for school. We luxuriate under the covers and watch food shows,
critiquing dishes and taking note of recipes we might like to try. He is an aspiring
chef and often engages in cooking competitions with his friends in our kitchen
(i.e. The Scrambled Egg Challenge and Chopped: The Top Ramen Edition). Watching
The Cooking Channel under the covers—this is our “thing.”
So, we are doing our thing, watching Bobby Flay make
French toast and I take the opportunity to give T a big hug and smooch his
baby-face. He tolerates my affection, eyes still on Bobby Flay, while I shower his
face with kisses.
“What’s it like to be adored?” I ask him.
“What’s a dord?” he replies.
“You know, adored.”
“A dord?”
“Yes!—adored!”
“I don’t know what a dord is—what is it?”
“Adored…like to be loved and adored.”
“Oh! Oh, I thought you meant a dord, like as a noun, and
I’m like, what is she talking about?”
We both had a good laugh. Now, The Husband and I call him
“Dord,” as in “What’s up, Dord? And how was school, Dord?” He is, after all, adored by all. Except by J, who has
jokingly modified our term of endearment to “dork,” being the wise-cracking big
brother that he is.
That is one of the best things about family. There are
secret languages, inside jokes and private rituals among its members. We are
our own secret society.
J and I binge-watch episodes of Z Nation and formulate
elaborate zombie apocalypse strategies, should a zombie apocalypse occur (we’ll
grab The Husband’s golf clubs along with all of the hockey sticks and hole up
in Costco where there is an endless supply of food; of course, a Lord of the
Flies scenario will likely unfold amongst the warehouse population, so a Costco
government must be formed—it’s very complicated).This is our thing—and just one of many. The Zombie Apocalypse Strategy is a
conversation that can pop up at random, always picking up where we last left off. I hope the conversation goes on forever.
My oldest son, Bert, and I meet up on Thursdays for happy
hour or dinner and general hanging out. I can’t believe my luck that my
28-year-old son wants to spend time with his old mom. It’s very flattering, indeed,
and something I am ever so grateful for. Soon, he will be married so our
Thursdays may be numbered, so every evening I get to spend with him is a gift,
and I always drive home from our time together feeling deeply gratified.
My son Topher’s secret language is food. He will call and
ask for childhood favorites that only I can make the way he remembers—pork
chops and rice, cheese enchiladas, mashed potatoes, chicken soup. Dear Moms:
the way to a man’s heart really is through his stomach. Sons will return home
for mom’s cooking, so hone up on your cooking skills and take note of their
favorite home-cooked meals.
All of my boys and I share a “secret handshake,” that is
not really a handshake but more of a hand squeeze. Three hand squeezes means “I
love you.” It comes in handy when we are in a place where we cannot talk out
loud, or when we are unbearably happy and no words can describe our joy, or
when someone is sad and doesn’t really want to talk about it. It’s corny but
it’s ours.
Of course, The Husband and the boys all have their own
“thing.” As do the brothers, among themselves; they have their own secret
language that even we parents can’t decipher because we’re not meant to because
they are likely talking about us, or ways to get what they want from us without
us knowing. Of course, The Husband and I have our own secret language too—we
can almost read each other’s minds. But mostly, there are no secrets from one
another inside the family. At least none that I know of.
The other day, J and I heard somebody pronounce the word
Sunday as “Sundee” (we think it’s a mid-west thing). We both looked each other
in the eyes and repeated simultaneously, “Sundee.” Whenever we hear someone
pronounce any day of the week with a double-E at the end, instead of ending
with “day,” we look each other in the eyes and repeat. It’s our thing.
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