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“Oh, it’s twangy,” she said as the country song started to play.
It wasn’t a real song, in the way you typically thought of them. It was more of a comedy song, if that made any sense.
One called “Still Ain’t Sick of Fucking You.”
We had a tradition of always giving and trading music for holidays. Sometimes with a beloved CD, or something brand new we wanted to listen to together. Music was always involved.
And I thought this was a funny one.
Especially after a rough day with Bop Bop.
“That was amazing,” she declared.
“Go on and click on some of the other ones,” I said. “Can I suggest Sit On My Face, Puss In Boots, Fuck You With the Lights On, Fucked by a Country Boy, Fuck You Bitch, and Anal & the Dishes?” I suggested.
“Oh, you’ve been listening,” she said, smiling at me as she clicked another track.
“It’s absurd but addictive,” I admitted.
“I mean… we remember my binge of old-school Bo Burnham songs, don’t we?” she asked.
“True,” I agree. “And while you listen, I’m gonna take this little man, and go pick up dinner,” I said.
“Have I mentioned how much I love you?” she asked, and I noticed her feet were moving side to side with the silly music.
“Love you more,” I said, walking over toward her to press a kiss to her head.
I didn’t mean more than she loved me.
It wasn’t a competition.
But I loved her more every fucking day.
“Oh, Finn?” she called.
“Yeah,” I asked.
“Don’t come home without my sour candy.”
“I wouldn’t dare.”
Lexy - 21 years
“You sure we can’t tell him he can’t go?” I asked, looking over at Finn as our eldest son loaded his van in the driveway.
It was the same ugly black, windowless thing that he’d insisted on when he’d gotten his license, despite us trying to talk him into an actual car or SUV.
Nope.
He needed that damn van.
Eventually, he and his buddies spray painted the shit out of it, which helped it look slightly less creepy.
To my utter disgust, I’d watched him rip all the shelving out of the back this morning… and throw his mattress in instead.
Because our boy, our precious little baby, was ‘going on the road.’
“He’s an adult now,” Finn reminded me, but his hand was moving up and down my spine.
I knew this wasn’t any easier on him. But he was holding it together better than I was.
I’d already yelled, cried, and pleaded this morning.
And while our kid wasn’t a heartless little jerk who didn’t care that his mother was upset, he had his mind made up.
“We could slash his tires,” I suggested.
To that, he chuckled.
“He’d just replace them.”
“We could… tell him we’ve been lying to him his whole life and that he’s actually not a super talented musician and lyricist.”
“We could never,” he said, sighing.
“No,” I agreed, feeling my heart cracking just a little bit more as our son loaded his amps into the back next to his mattress.
We’d encouraged his love of music every single step of the way. We’d bought those amps. His guitar. The notebooks where he wrote his songs. I let him practice for free at the studio. We drove him to his first shows. We cheered him on.
And he was good, damnit.
I wasn’t just saying that as his mother, but as a lifelong audiophile.
Hell, his Uncle Andrew had all his music on one of his iPods that were so ancient that I didn’t know how they were still working.
He was good.
And he deserved to pursue this.
I just hadn’t been prepared for how quickly he would hit the road after he graduated.
It had been, what? Two weeks.
Eighteen years with this kid was not nearly enough.
“Mom,” our son said as he walked up, his head tilted to the side, his face so much like his father’s. He looked apologetic, but also resigned and excited for his adventure, about following his dreams.
“I know,” I said, blinking hard. “I know. I’m not going to make you feel bad, I swear,” I said. “But I’m just going to miss you so fucking much.”
“You can follow it all online,” he said, smiling.
“Just what a mother wants to hear,” I said, shaking my head. “Where are you stopping first?” I asked.
“Philly.”
“I want a call when you get there. I don’t care if you’re a grown-up; you need to tell your mom where you are.”
“I will. I promise,” he said, then let me hug the shit out of him before getting a hug from his father as well.
As for his two younger brothers, well, all he got out of them were those bro-handshakes.
“This is all because of you,” he declared to me and Finn.
“Don’t you dare put that on me,” I said. “I wanted you to do something much safer than becoming a musician. Like, you know, an outlaw biker,” I said, smiling at his eye roll. “This is all Carl’s fault. All that talk of sex, drugs, and rock & roll.”
